by Jon Trace
Valentina turns around to Louisa. She needs help. There’s only so long she can keep shooting in the dark.
The clinician steps in. ‘Cassandra, I think it is time for you to be quiet now. Time to give way to Suzanna. Let Suzanna come back and talk to us.’
In the split second that Louisa looks to Valentina to signify that the interview must come to an end, things go horribly wrong.
A bony hand grabs the doctor by the throat and runs with her until her head bangs against the far wall. ‘Domina! Dominus! Templum! Libera nos a malo!’ The patient squeezes hard. A vice-like choke hold. ‘Domina! Dominus! Templum! Libera nos a malo!’
Valentina moves quickly. From behind, she loops her left arm around Cassandra’s neck and smashes her left forearm downwards to break the grip on Louisa. The doctor falls free.
Valentina sweeps her right knee behind Cassandra’s legs to unbalance her. She goes down shouting.
Valentina pins her to the floor, rolls her over and cuffs her hands. ‘Suffragio! Le anime nel purgatorio. Suffragio!’
‘Be careful. Don’t hurt her.’ Louisa is purple in the face but still worried about the patient.
Within a second, Valentina has Cassandra upright and is manoeuvring her backwards on to the bed.
The two women’s eyes meet.
She’s changed again.
Cassandra has gone.
31
Neither Valentina nor Louisa ever drinks in the middle of the day at work.
Except today.
A bottle of rough red given to the doctor last Christmas is uncorked and half consumed in Louisa’s office before either of them can really talk.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Valentina, back on the sofa where her ill-conceived plan was outlined. ‘I feel really bad about her attacking you like that.’
Louisa bolts down the vinegary wine and tops up her glass. ‘My fault. I knew better than you that she could have a violent mood swing.’ She touches her neck. ‘I think I’ll have to wear a scarf for a few days, or else there’ll be jokes about me dating vampires.’
Valentina laughs. She likes the clinician and wishes she could make amends. ‘I owe you one. Any time I can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to ask.’
Louisa holds up her hand. ‘No need. I know you have a tough job. We can’t always help, but when we can, we’re usually very willing to do so.’
‘Grazie.’ Valentina wonders whether Cassandra, or Suzanna – or whoever she really is – would have killed Louisa if she hadn’t stepped in. She concludes that she probably would. ‘Can I ask you to do me a final favour? Nothing risky this time.’
Louisa is wary. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Cassandra shouted out some words in Latin and Italian. I’ve made a note of them. If she says anything else, could you write it down and maybe call me?’
‘Sure. I can do that.’
Valentina scribbles her private cell phone and home numbers on a business card and hands it over. She notices Louisa’s fingers are shaking. ‘Can you take the rest of the day off?’
The clinician smiles. ‘No. Can you?’
‘Maybe.’ Valentina glances at her watch. Almost three p.m. She knows she should go back to the office, but she has no intention of doing so. Forty-eight hours. That’s all Caesario gave her, and the clock is already ticking faster than she’d like. ‘I have to go.’ She drags herself from the comfort of her seat. ‘Call me if you want. Even if you just feel the need to chat.’
Louisa nods and watches the policewoman leave. She puts her hand to her throat and tries not to cry. She got it wrong. Badly wrong. Maybe Valducci was right. Maybe she is guilty of jumping to conclusions, looking for a rare disorder when there isn’t one. Perhaps the woman who had her hands around her throat is just a wild psychotic killer after all.
32
Tom’s surprised to see her.
Pleasantly surprised.
But then the look on Valentina’s face gives away the fact that she’s not come home early for recreational purposes.
‘Are you all right?’ He puts down the book he’s reading and gets up from the sofa to go to her.
‘Depends on your definition of all right.’ Valentina is already at the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. ‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’ She pours a glass, drinks and tops it up before putting the bottle back in the fridge. ‘If I don’t drink water as soon as I come in, then I eat like a horse.’ She slips out of her coat and goes to hang it up.
Tom can see she’s tense. Strung tighter than a new guitar. He lets her pace for a second and then opens his arms. ‘Hey, come here.’
Valentina folds herself into his embrace. Puts her face against him and silently enjoys the closeness. She’s spent so long coping with problems on her own, it’s strange to have someone around to share them with. More than strange. A little awkward. She kisses his cheek and slowly pulls away. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’
They sit alongside each other on the sofa and she takes his hand.
‘I thought I had everything locked down. Processes in place. Situation under control. Truth is, this whole damned thing isn’t making sense, and I’m starting to see shadows.’
‘Maybe talking through it will help you see some light.’
She pulls her legs up and sits facing him at the end of the sofa. ‘I went to the hospital today to see the woman we’d arrested, and she went insane. She was speaking as though she came from centuries ago and shouting weird things. Then she went crazy and nearly killed Louisa.’
‘Louisa?’
‘Verdetti, the woman in charge of the clinic. She had her by her throat and was choking the life out of her.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘Just about. Very shaken, though.’
‘I can imagine.’ Tom tries to picture the incident. ‘Was the attacker right-handed or left-handed?’
Valentina demonstrates. ‘Left-handed.’
‘I remember that you said that whoever carried out the dismemberment at the church was left-handed. Is this the same person?’
Valentina lets out a sigh. ‘That’s one of the confusing things. The blood on our suspect’s clothes doesn’t match the severed hand found at the church.’
‘Weird.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Can you put the suspect at the church?’
‘Not yet. There are no CCTV cameras around there. Canvassing of locals has come up blank. Forensics are still going over fingerprints and trace evidence to see if there’s anything to prove she was anywhere near the Bocca della Verità.’
Tom shuffles round on the sofa so he’s directly facing her. ‘What was she saying today? You said she was talking strangely.’
‘It was unbelievable. She became this totally different person.’ Valentina clicks her fingers. ‘Snap! Suddenly she was this Cassandra figure, talking as though she was back in old Roman times.’
‘And what did she say?’
She pauses to remember. ‘Nothing hugely significant. She behaved like she was a very powerful woman with a big house and lots of money.’ She laughs. ‘Cheeky bitch called me a whore!’
Tom smiles and rubs a foot that has now trespassed on to his lap. ‘If only she knew what a virtuous life you lived.’
She gives him a playful kick. ‘I was very fine and celibate until you led me astray.’
He can see mischief in her eyes. ‘What else?’
She screws up her face. ‘Domina! Dominus! Templum! Libera nos a malo!’
‘Mistress. Master. Temple. Deliver us from evil.’
‘She said it a couple of times. Like it was a mantra.’
‘Somewhat cryptic.’
‘Louisa said that was the case with Cassandra women.’ He frowns at her.
‘It’s a psychological condition. Some kind of problem where women dissociate and start blurting out words or messages that no one else can understand.’
‘And that’s your problem. You’ve got to understand, right?’
‘Right
.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Suffragio. Le anime nel purgatorio. Suffragio! I know what it means. Suffrage. The souls in Purgatory.’
‘That isn’t Latin, it’s just Italian.’
She scowls at him. ‘I know that.’
Tom becomes thoughtful. Drifts away into a world of internal focus. Tries to clear the white noise and pick out the key words. Mistress. Master. Temple. Suffrage. Souls. Purgatory. He feels like he’s grasping at straws. ‘The Latin she did use is stilted. All I can think of is that maybe it’s a reference to some ancient gods who share a temple. Does that mean anything?’
He takes the puzzled look on her face to be a no.
‘The last part might be easier. Isn’t there a temple or special church dedicated to souls or suffrage?’
She laughs. ‘Absolutely. About a thousand of them.’
‘No, seriously. I’m sure I recall – from my previous job – somewhere specific, a chiesa run by a special mission.’
She unfolds herself and walks across the room. ‘My Latin is about as poor as my regular church attendance. All I can remember is Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.’
Tom laughs. ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon?’
‘That’s it! Straight out of Harry Potter – a Hogwarts motto, I think.’ From a shelf she collects a handful of tourist leaflets and guide books. ‘These came free with the apartment.’ She drops a pile on his lap ‘Every place of interest in Rome is covered in there. You search those and I’ll look through these.’
She sits back down and makes the mistake of stretching her legs out into his space.
Tom grabs her feet and pulls her flat on to the sofa. Valentina can’t help but let out a girlish shriek.
He leans over the top of her, arms as broad as the pillars of the Pantheon, a smile as wide as the Tiber. ‘In a minute. We’ll do them in a minute. Okay?’
Valentina’s eyes sparkle. She tilts her chin so her mouth is so close to his she can feel his breath on her lips, ‘Fine by me. But if we’re stopping, it’d better take more than just a minute.’
33
Several hours later, Valentina and Tom are outside the church of the Sacro Cuore del Suffragio on the Lungotevere Prati in the Tiber Meadows, just down from Il Palazzaccio, the giant Palace of Justice.
Neither of them is sure what they’re supposed to be looking for.
But both are certain that this is the place they should be looking.
Dusk has turned to total darkness and the moon over the white façade of the chiesa makes it look like a fairy-tale fortress fashioned from icicles. It’s completely out of context with all the other mundane buildings around it, a twenty-metre-high explosion of innumerable spires, human-sized statues and spectacular stained glass. Tom presumes its visual pureness comes from marble, but as he gets closer, he’s surprised to find that the façade has been made from masses of concrete.
No matter, it’s still amazing.
The only neo-Gothic church in Rome.
So stunning that in its prime it was christened the Little Dome of Milan.
A small, balding priest in a short-sleeved dog-collared shirt stands in the portico, rubbing thin hairy arms as he watches his two late visitors approach.
He knows what they’re here for.
They called ahead to check the church was open. Valentina gives him her best smile. ‘Father Brancati?’
‘Si.’
She extends her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am Captain Morassi, Valentina Morassi. This is Tom Shaman.’ She thinks of adding that Tom used to be a priest, but decides not to label him. If he wants, he’ll mention it himself.
‘Buonasera.’ Tom gives Brancati a firm handshake. ‘Your church is incredibly beautiful. The frontage is breathtaking.’
‘Grazie.’ Brancati walks them in as he talks. ‘The inside has not the splendour of the outside, but as you apparently know, it is even more intriguing.’
Tom and Valentina trade glances.
‘This is a parochial church served by the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, to which I belong. It was built at the turn of the nineteenth century and consecrated during the First World War.’ He huffs. ‘The so-called Great War. I fail to see why they called it great. No war is great, and that one was monstrous.’
‘Did your family lose people?’ Tom blinks as his eyes adjust to the low yellow candlelight inside the church.
‘On both my father’s and mother’s sides – at the battle of Caporetto. They died within days of each other, cut down on the banks of the Isonzo river.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Grazie. It is long ago, but in my family it is never forgotten.’ He stops and raises his hands to the huge vaulted ceilings. ‘In daylight, the sunlight filtering through the rose windows is heavenly, especially over the altar. All this was the dream of a French priest called Victor Jouet.’
They stand for a moment in the cool of the church and look over the nave, with its three aisles, each ending in an apse, divided by quatrefoil pillars. Tom has an urge to sit in one of the pews, a desire to soak up the tranquillity and calm of the place.
But there isn’t time.
Father Brancati is already genuflecting in front of the altar and turning right into an annex.
The most famous church annex in Rome.
A room of miracles.
‘So, here you are.’ He waves his arms again. ‘The Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio – the Museum of Souls in Purgatory.’
It’s nothing to look at.
A long glass display case with sliding doors and an ugly hardwood surround dominates one wall. The exhibits are small and are mounted on cheap pegboard. They wouldn’t fetch ten euros as a job lot in a car boot sale. They appear to be bits of cloth, books and old papers. Nothing to catch the eye.
Tom studies the objects closely. Just being next to them makes him feel energised. It’s as though an electric current is attached to his nerves and is gently pulsing away in wave after wave.
Father Brancati can see he’s transfixed. ‘You understand what they are? Their significance?’
Tom’s eyes don’t leave the case. ‘I do. They’re messages from Purgatory. Pleas from souls trapped there to be cleansed of their sins and allowed redemption.’
Valentina leans close to the glass. She can see scorched hand marks and fingerprints on prayer books.
‘It is evidence of another world,’ says Brancati, ‘proof that when we die, our souls go into Purgatory to be purified and made holy enough to pass into the glory of heaven.’ He taps the glass. ‘These apparitions reached out. They wanted people to pray for them, to speed their passage into God’s glorious company.’
Valentina can’t help but ask a police-like question, ‘What evidence is there that these relics weren’t faked?’
Brancati isn’t angered. He’s addressed the point a thousand times. ‘All the relics have sworn testimonies by those who witnessed the apparitions. Look closer and you’ll see that each exhibit is accompanied by the story of its origin.’
Valentina looks. She’s unimpressed. There’s nothing there that would stand up in court. But then again, she tells herself, she knows people have faith, and faith can’t be detected by Luminol spray or DNA swabs.
Brancati taps the glass. ‘In December 1838, Giuseppe Stitz was reading a book of prayers when this mark of a hand appeared on it. He gave testimony that he then heard the voice of his dead brother asking for prayers.’
Valentina has seen enough of the exhibits. ‘Thank you, Father. You have been most helpful.’
Tom extends his hand and shakes that of the priest. ‘Would it be all right if Captain Morassi and I look around the church and then come back to see you in the sacristy if we have any final questions?’
‘I must go in twenty minutes.’ He holds up his wrist and a cheap watch. ‘Will you be done by then?’
‘We will,’ Valentina readily promises.
He nods and leaves.
‘Well,
’ she says to Tom, ‘what do you make of that?’
‘A little more than you do.’ Tom glances around. ‘But that’s not the point. I don’t see any real tie to your woman prisoner. Except that she sent us here.’
‘Maybe sent us here.’
‘Maybe,’ he concedes, then walks past her into the main body of the church.
The place is in half-light. Searching it seems impossible.
Tom wanders up the left and Valentina the right. It all suddenly seems pointless to her. With most searches you know what you’re looking for – a gun, a knife, a murder weapon, bloodstains, footprints, fingerprints, hairs, fibres, a suicide note or even a death-bed confession.
She finds a stack of prayer books.
Pointless.
There are dozens of them.
Each with hundreds of pages and thousands of words. She looks across the church and pauses. What did she just think of?
Notes, suicide notes, confession notes. She makes her way through the pews to one of two old-fashioned con fessionals pushed against the right-hand wall of the church.
Tom sees her from the other side and drifts across. Valentina slips through a rusty-brown curtain and sits on the bench where the priest normally positions himself. She notices there are two wooden shutters, allowing him to hear confession from either side. She opens them both and smiles at the sight of a tube of peppermints tucked away in the corner of a narrow shelf.
Tom’s face appears through the shutter in front of her and makes her jump.
‘Madonna!’ she says, pleased that nothing worse slipped out.
‘Three Hail Marys as penance,’ chides Tom. ‘You find anything?’
‘Nothing.’ She pulls a small penlight torch from her pocket and shines it around. ‘Just Father Brancati’s food stash.’
‘I had a McDonald’s during confession once. It was coming up to Christmas and I was doing double shifts. You’d be amazed what goes on in those booths.’
