'A spoilt little bitch. You know the type - looking like there's a nasty smell right under their nose. The sort who doesn't respect artists but buys things just 'cause they like owning things, collecting them - perhaps even wearing them once, if they feel like it, but never more than once.'
And in addition there's the information received about the pistol that fired the shots. The bullets extracted from the corpses lead him still further away from a solution: they turn everything upside down and bring him back to the starting point. A pistol, properly registered, that belongs to a rich entrepreneur from Bologna, a Signor Montanarini, esteemed member of the Rotary Club, collector of guns, personal friend of the questore.
He told them he hadn't even noticed that the pistol was missing. He keeps the guns in his study, some hanging on the walls, some arranged in cases and some locked up in drawers.
'I haven't cleaned them all for months, so it could have disappeared at any time,' he said. No sign of a burglary. 'Perhaps I'd forgotten to close the drawer, but at least the study door's always locked,' he explained to the questore. Yes, because it was the questore himself who insisted on asking the questions.
The entrepreneur added that he often holds parties in his villa, but he rules out the possibility of one of his illustrious guests - who often include the questore and his wife - having stolen it. And then there's the video surveillance system, which captures every suspect movement, but for 'reasons of privacy' not a single tape has made it as far as the police station. None of the recordings that Marconi himself has seen is relates to the robbery in question.
No one knows, therefore, how the pistol disappeared, and, besides, Montanarini has already been inconvenienced enough.
'Please, nothing else,' Marconi blurts aloud. He's really angry about this obvious muddying of the waters.
He feels a bit like a stagnant puddle of water. The rain has stopped and he's just left there: he can't flow anywhere and soon he'll evaporate under the warmth of the sun. He will eventually disappear - without having been too much of a nuisance - just as the Black Widow is getting further away from him, and fading back into the fog again.
He would like to call Viola. He would like to see her sad smile again.
In the last few days all he's had time to do is interview the various witnesses again.
An old lady has joined the list of them. She explains that she hasn't been in touch before because her husband doesn't want any trouble, but, after having seen that programme on Raidue, about the killer in high heels, and then a bit of the press conference, she'd made up her mind to come in. She has sworn that, in Via de' Castagnoli, she saw - and it was definitely the evening of the murder - a pretty girl in a black raincoat, platinum blonde. She looked like Marilyn Monroe, she added.
'I was hot. I never usually open the window because of those horrible tramps who often sleep right under my flat, with their dogs. They're so dirty and rude. But that evening I decided to get a breath of air. My husband was asleep, when I opened the shutter and I saw her. She was walking along, in a hurry. I live in Via del Guasto, just round the corner from where they found that man. The dead man, I mean. I thought to myself: what is such a pretty girl doing out at this time of night?'
'Hello?'
'Don't you recognise my voice?'
A warm, enticing voice. A voice that ensnares you and won't let you rise back to the surface. Like quicksand.
'Who's speaking?'
'Have you forgotten me already?'
Marconi doesn't know what to say. The inviting voice on the other end of the line seems to reawaken his dull senses on this foggy Monday, in the middle of the afternoon.
'It's Samantha. A couple of days ago I saw the programme on -'
'"The killer in high heels",' Marconi interrupts her. He hates journalists, and fucking press conferences - and fuck Frolli too, who made up that name to grab the public's attention.
'I saw you, Inspector Marconi. What a little rascal you've been!'
'I couldn't-'
'I know, I know. But you're not very photogenic. Much better-looking in person.'
'How did you get my number?'
'Easy. I called the police station and told them I had important information on the Black Widow case to give personally to Inspector Marconi.'
Marconi doesn't respond to that. He doesn't know whether to tell her that what she did isn't ethical, but 'ethical' isn't a word he uses.
'You were so crafty, pretending to be a disappointed lover…'
'Nothing personal. I was undercover…'
'Don't worry. I understand. In fact I called you to help you out with your investigation.'
'You've remembered something?'
'No, nothing about your girlfriend.' She explodes in a brief, and startling, burst of laughter. 'But this weekend there's to be a very, very interesting party.'
'And what has the party got to do with the investigation?'
'It's a party that's been advertised everywhere on the underground scene. I can't get her out of my mind. If you really want to know the truth, I've still got her taste in my mouth.'
Marconi swallows. His saliva goes down like cement that's not quite set.
'Come with me to the party. That way you could win my forgiveness and at the same time, if you're lucky, you might also catch your killer. It's a fancy dress party. Aren't you going to ask me what the theme is?'
'You're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?' "Marilyn Superstar is not dead'. On the flyer it says that girls need to wear platinum-blonde wigs. Doesn't that remind you of anything?' 'Where do you live?'
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
'Excuse me, Giulia. I need the bathroom. Do you mind?'
'Of course not - what a question! Use whichever one you want. You know where they are.'
The ringtone sounds, with the latest song by Biagio Antonacci.
'Hello. Oh, hi, Luca… No, I can't this evening. I've got my friend, Eva, here - you know, the girl who's a bit depressed. She hasn't got anyone and the fact is I feel sorry for her. I'm keeping her company… Yes, yes, we'll do it some other time… Bye. Love you.'
Giulia feels a sense of satisfaction in claiming Eva is depressed - it makes herself feel better - and she now pretends not to notice that her friend isn't depressed at all. On the contrary, Eva has never been in such good shape as she is at the moment.
At work she has become firmly entrenched in the creative team. She has had a raise, and she has bought a new car. And now it's Giulia who has to do the scanning for her friend. Eva looks radiant - damn her, and the day she made her join the gym.
'You've taken ages.'
'Sorry, but you know I always get lost in your stately home. Where's Giovanna today?'
'Giovanna?'
'The maid.'
'What are you on about? Why should you care where the maid is?'
'Sorry. I wanted to ask her if she'd make a swan for my sister. I'm going to dinner at my parents' tonight and I wanted to give it her as a present.'
'Today's Wednesday - it's her half day off. By the way, if anyone asks about me this evening, I'm with you, OK?'
'No problem: we're always together. Are you seeing Luca?'
'No, Fabrizio - someone I met last night, as I was doing Latin American dancing with Stefania. And if anyone phones you, I'm in the bathroom and my mobile needs recharging, so it's switched off in my bag.'
'OK, Giulia, but you know no one ever calls me.'
'It gets on my nerves that you're always so questioning. Is it too much to ask that you just say yes?'
'You're in a bad mood today. Is there something wrong? You've been a bit strange lately.'
'Nothing. Well… it's just that it's my birthday soon and I've asked my father for a special present, but he doesn't want to know and I don't know how to persuade him.'
'Insist. You're very good at getting men to change their minds.'
'Hmm… but he's been very nervy recently, my father, so I don't know. But h
ow come you're telling me that I've changed… Just look at yourself! You're never around in the evening. I know you see your parents twice a week - at most - but when I ask you to have supper with me, you always come up with excuses. You haven't found a lover you don't want to tell me about, have you?' Giulia holds her breath.
'No, there's no lover… Anyway, you'd better get ready or Fabrizio will be annoyed. Let me do your hair. I'll put it in a plait - you always look good with your hair tied back. Am I being nosy if I ask you what you've asked for for your birthday that's so special?'
'Er… OK, I'll tell you. You'd soon see it anyway. I want a Cabriolet coupe. I adore them.'
Eva stops plaiting for a second. Then she starts again, moving her hands rapidly in and around Giulia's ash-blonde hair, while Giulia sits without talking and stares at her red, polished nails.
'Finished! Have a look.' Eva interrupts the silence.
'I look awful! I look like my grandmother.' And she starts to undo the just-plaited hair.
'I'm off now, Giulia. I need to spend a bit of time with Miew. Tonight I'm at my parents, so I'll be leaving her on her own again.'
'She's not a child… Oh, well, off you go. Of course, letting a cat run your life…'
'You know…'
'No. Go, go. It's just that I was hoping to talk to you for a bit.'
'But didn't you say you were in a hurry?'
'Yes, I am in a hurry, but not that much of a hurry.'
'What is it? Is it still about your father?'
'No.' Guilia's face clouds over and she rests her hands in her lap.
'What is it, Giuli?'
'No, go. Think of your cat. It doesn't matter.'
Eva starts for the door but then turns back.
Never look back, the special lady used to tell her when she was small.
Looking back means being weak.
Looking back means letting someone else run your life.
Eva doesn't want to, but she looks back.
'Come on, tell me. Don't worry about Miew. I can always call my parents up and say I'll be half an hour late.'
She sits on the bed and waits. In silence.
Giulia lets a smile of victory appear on her lips.
She too has just been lost in a faraway memory. A memory that smells of talcum powder.
Talcum powder. She used to love that pink crystal box. She loved to lift the lid carefully and let the sweet smell spread over her.
She would breathe gently, the lid in her hand.
Then she would put the box down on the blue tiles of the bathroom that was in her old house - her old place was enormous, but still a hovel compared with the villa she lives in now.
She would wait a few seconds more, and then would take up the powder-puff. It was a magical thing.
A white cloud.
She would start to stroke her rosy cheeks. She breathed in the perfume.
The perfume of a woman.
The perfume of desire.
One day her mother had called out for her. She heard her footsteps in the corridor, getting closer and closer.
In the midst of that soft, white intimacy, her mother's voice felt like a slap; she felt violated.
A sudden movement and… the white cloud that had been transporting her to faraway lands, the lands of dreams, of hidden desires, dropped into a whirlwind of powder.
White.
Then the fog had settled, slowly. As if time had stopped.
Silence.
The end of a dream.
A thousand pieces of crystal covered in a blanket. The blanket was as light as settled fog, and yet it seemed to her to weigh down heavily.
'I'm still here. I'm waiting. What did you want to tell me, Giulia?'
The girl turns. 'Nothing, really. I'll tell you another time. Don't worry, it doesn't matter.'
Eva waits for the bus in the half light of the city, which swallows her up. She thinks about how she really has changed: the sad, newborn infant inside her has become a woman, a woman who knows what she wants.
Her mobile phone rings.
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
A block of flats. Like so many others looming behind the incessant stream of cars in Via Stalingrado.
Marconi looks up, out of the car window, and tries to count the floors.
The car door opens.
A leg as smooth as silk appears.
She gets in, along with her perfume.
A perfume that pushes the ordinary air out of its way.
She demands attention.
He stares at her, with his mouth half open, as if his eyes aren't enough to take in such a breathtaking vision.
She is demanding.
She is wearing a gold lurex outfit that wraps itself around her, embraces her. A slit on the left side reveals her black stockings. She is dressed, but it's as if she's wearing nothing. Pornographic.
A curly blonde wig clashes with her eyebrows, which are black as night.
She is beautiful. Gratuitously beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that fills both your consciousness and the space that surrounds her.
'Here I am. Have you been waiting long?'
'No, only about five minutes.'
'Let's go. I'll tell you the way.'
He starts the car and immediately she rests her hand on his as he holds the gearstick. Marconi moves his hand away, hurriedly, and for a moment doesn't know where to put it. Then he rests it on the steering wheel. When a car brakes in front of him, the gears don't engage. The car screeches.
'Sorry, but I need a bit of space when I'm driving,' he mumbles.
She fills the space.
Let's hope we get there soon.
I'm going to get a result this evening.
Thoughts. Thoughts that run into each other. Bouncing around within the car.
'Do you like your work?'
'Yes.'
'I would've liked to have been a police woman. Don't you think I'd be sexy in a miniskirt with a badge?'
'I've never had a female partner, but I don't think policewomen go around in miniskirts.'
'What have you got against miniskirts? There's no way you're a feminist?'
'I'm just saying they're impractical.'
'Minis are practical and, anyway, what would you know? Or do you like wearing women's clothes in your spare time?'
'What do you mean? I don't do that stuff. I was just saying… Well, they don't seem practical to me. And then, working with so many men, it could cause embarrassment.'
'It wouldn't embarrass me at all - on the contrary. In fact I'd be doing a good deed by brightening up my colleagues' workdays, wouldn't you say?'
'Probably.'
'Probably, or definitely? There's a difference.'
'Definitely, definitely.'
'I could be wrong, but are you shy?'
'Me, shy? No, I've never been shy.'
'Ah, I see. You've never been shy.'
The gears shriek again.
Fuck. What's going on? I didn't even crunch the gears like this when I was learning to drive.
'So, it's not true that your girlfriend dumped you?'
'Well, no. I told you that just to get information.'
'For a cop as cute as you, I would've given you the information anyway. Or, of course, you could've squeezed it out of me. By force.'
Marconi turns on the radio.
She switches it off. 'I prefer talking.'
He starts to whistle softly.
'Left at the traffic lights. Have you lived in Bologna long?'
'A few years.'
'But are you always so mysterious? You never give anything away.'
'What about you?'
'Take the second turning at the roundabout. It's been a few years for me here as well. Turn right. We're here. Look for somewhere to park.' 'But you could've told me the party was here, at Salara.'
'What? So you could've just said "Let's meet there"?'
Marconi doesn't answer. It's
true: he would have said that. It would have been his instinctive response.
'They're leaving. Park there.'
A boy in glasses - who must have got the wrong evening - is rushing away from the space with a girl. She's wearing glasses too.
'But isn't this a gay club? I once arranged to meet a colleague here by mistake, and I ended up having to explain myself to a sort of dwarf dressed… ambiguously.'
Samantha bursts out laughing.
'You're so narrow-minded! They have some great nights, so I often come here.'
'But does that mean you're…?'
'I'm me. And if you want to know if I like men as well, I can prove that to you now.' She crosses her legs, and thus uncovers even more of her thigh.
'Let's go.' Marconi opens the car door.
He's about to cross the road when he realises that she's not behind him.
The girl is eyeing him with a mischievous smile through the slightly steamed-up window. She waves at him to come and open her door.
Women. So keen to take the initiative, and, yet they can't even open a car door by themselves.
He flings open the door clumsily. She holds out her hand and waits a second or two for him to notice it and take it in his. Then she gets out of the vehicle, leaning lightly against him.
They go in together. Marconi a step behind her.
'Do you have a pass?' demands a mannish-looking girl at the ticket desk.
'What?'
'You need a pass to get in,' she says, sounding pissed off.
'But I won't be coming again, so why would I want a pass?'
'You need a pass to get in tonight. If you don't come again, that's your business. I don't know… these straight shits who come here and think they can do whatever they like.'
'What?'
Samantha approaches the short-haired girl and gently touches her hand. She whispers something in her ear.
'OK, Sam, OK. But if were you I wouldn't go round with certain people. Do me a favour and take him away.'
'But what did you say to her?'
No answer. In the meantime, an irritated queue has been building up behind Marconi, who - who at one metre eighty-seven tall, and distinctly uneasy - is blocking the entrance.
The Girl with the Crystal Eyes Page 14
