The Garden of Evil

by David Hewson

  The woman with the robes around her shoulders sighed and said, “After that I wonder if there is really any point in going on. From a serving police officer . . .”

  “One who was shot in the course of duty last night,” Peroni pointed out. “By this bast—”

  A look from Falcone silenced him.

  “The point of this proceeding,” the woman went on, “is to discuss the police application for papers which will allow you to search the Palazzo Malaspina freely, and take specimens from Count Malaspina. Or is there something new you wish to add to that list now, Inspector?”

  “That will suffice,” Falcone replied. “It’s all we need.”

  The woman picked up a briefcase and took out a substantial wad of papers.

  “At a previous hearing, I established that you will not be allowed to ask Count Malaspina for specimens without firm and incontrovertible evidence linking him to these events, which you have so far failed to provide. There are rules about harassment. There are avenues open to an individual persecuted by the state.”

  “Four men died last night,” Falcone pointed out. “One of them an innocent security guard. Sovrintendente Costa could have been killed. Sister Agata—”

  “This is irrelevant to Count Malaspina unless you have proof,” she declared with a peremptory brusqueness. “How many times do I have to say this?”

  “I don’t know,” Falcone barked back. “Given that it always seems to be you who deals with these requests when they are made, possibly many, many more.”

  Grimaldi put a hand to his head and emitted a groan. The woman turned and glowered at him.

  “Are you letting your officers accuse me now?”

  “There is only one person in this room we accuse,” Grimaldi answered. “Please address the point, Falcone.”

  “I merely note that,” the inspector added icily, “I find it intriguing that whenever the subject of prosecuting Franco Malaspina comes before us, the name of Silvia Tentori invariably appears on the sheet. It is . . . illuminating to discover that the judiciary works so efficiently these days that it is able to supply us with magistrates who seem already to be familiar with the case we wish to bring before them.”

  “This will not take long,” the woman muttered. “Sovrintendente?”

  Costa nodded at her, taking in Falcone’s bitter, resigned expression. “What do you want to know?”

  “In spite of yet another application for discovery and specimens concerning Count Malaspina, your colleagues can supply no evidence linking him to these crimes. Nothing except this identification from you and Signora Graziano last night. Tell me. You are certain of this?”

  Costa glanced at the seated aristocrat, who watched him, relaxed, waiting for an answer, a finger to his lips, something close to a smirk on his face.

  “I am certain of it.”

  “How is that?” she asked. “The man was hooded.”

  “I recognised his voice. The tone of it. The way he spoke to Sister Agata.”

  The lawyer in the grey suit leaned forward. “You had not met the count until last night, and then spoke to him only briefly. We have witnesses for this.”

  “I spoke to him once before. When I followed him from the Vicolo del Divino Amore, the day he murdered my wife.”

  There was a chill in the room and an awkward silence. Then the lawyer added, “Another hooded man, in another hurried situation. Furthermore, if this was true, you would surely have reported the fact to the Questura immediately. Not returned to the Barberini studio to look at this painting. All the more so because of the personal nature of this so-called identification.”

  He was not going to pursue this. It was pointless.

  “And what lying bastard was he supposedly dining with last night?” Costa asked. “When he stole that painting and killed Emilio Buccafusca?”

  The lawyer sniffed. “The count dined with me, at home, just the two of us. My wife is away. We were together from eleven until twelve forty-five, when his household contacted us to say the police had enquired after him. After that I accompanied him to the Questura immediately in order to offer whatever assistance was required.”

  “Then,” Costa replied, “after I am done with his lies, I will deal with yours.”

  Silvia Tentori glared at him, furious. “Thank you, Officer. That is enough. I reject this identification entirely. It is clearly based on nothing more than personal animosity.”

  “It is based on the truth,” Costa insisted.

  “I doubt that,” the woman said. “This leaves one so-called identification alone. Signora Graziano.”

  “Sister . . .” Agata corrected her quietly. A surge of anger in Silvia Tentori’s eyes indicated she did not appreciate this.

  “You say you can identify Count Malaspina as the man you saw in the studio last night?”

  All eyes in the room were on her.

  “I believe so.”

  “You believe so?” the magistrate demanded. “What does that mean? We know you never saw his face. How is this possible?”

  “I have known Franco for several years. I know his voice. I recognise the way he speaks to me.”

  Silvia Tentori nodded, listening. “And were you helped in this identification?” she asked. “Did one of these police officers suggest to you this man whose face you never saw, whose voice you only heard in the course of a violent robbery, was Count Malaspina?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean . . . Nic and I . . . talked.”

  “You talked. When? What was said? The details, please.”

  Agata looked so exhausted. Nic felt like screaming at them all to get out of the room.

  “Sister Graziano was the victim of a violent attack herself,” Costa pointed out. “You have to expect her to be hazy on some details.”

  He knew it was a stupid thing to say the moment the words were out of his mouth.

  “Quite,” the magistrate observed with visible pleasure, then openly, as if she didn’t mind, glanced at Malaspina, who was studying his nails, and added, “but this is a very serious accusation to base upon a few barely heard words from a man whose face she never saw.”

  “I know,” she insisted. “Say something for me, Franco.”

  Malaspina took his attention away from his fingers and stared at her.

  “Say something?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Say, ‘That bitch always had a sport in the blood.’ ”

  He thought for a moment, then uttered the words in a precise, considered, aristocratic Roman accent, one both like and unlike the voice they had heard the previous night.

  “Well?” Silvia Tentori asked. “Am I supposed to infer something from this?”

  “It was him,” she insisted, “I know it. He knows it. We all do.”

  Malaspina shook his head, then got up and walked to the window, with its view out onto a bleak grey winter’s day and a field of slumbering vines. He placed his hands easily on the sill, looking at home, as if he owned the place.

  “This is ridiculous, Agata,” he said. “I know you have always resented me. You’re not alone. Envy is everywhere. But to manufacture an accusation like this. Here . . . Let us see how far you will go with this mindless vendetta.”

  There was a bookshelf behind him. Half the titles in the bedroom were still Emily’s, English and American literature, old books, about history and travel and classic stories she must have read time and time again. The rest were Costa’s or the family’s, a collection of texts that hadn’t been looked at for years, Gramsci and Pinocchio, the hard-boiled 1940s thrillers his father loved, and more modern gialli by Italian writers.

  One more book, too, its pages unopened for years.

  Franco Malaspina pulled the ragged family Bible off the shelf. His father had insisted on having an edition in the house, in spite of his beliefs. He would refer to it from time to time, and not always to prove a point.

  He threw the black, battered copy, with its dog-eared and torn pages, across the room. It landed on her
lap. Reluctantly, she took hold of the thing to stop it falling to the floor.

  “Look me in the eye, Agata, and swear on that precious object of yours that you know it was me last night.”

  She had her eyes closed, unable to speak. The faintest outline of a tear, almost invisible, like that of the Magdalene in the Doria Pamphilj, began to roll slowly down one cheek.

  It was all lost. Costa knew it.

  Painfully, he dragged himself out of the bed and sat on the edge, looking first at her, silent, remorseful, then at Malaspina.

  “Get out of my home,” he said again, and, with a glance at the magistrate and the lawyers, added, “and take your creatures with you. When I come for you, Malaspina, you will know it.”

  “That is a threat!” Silvia Tentori screeched. “A blatant, outright threat to a man against whom you have not the slightest evidence! I shall report this. I shall report everything here. We do not live in a police state where you people can go around terrorising any innocent citizen you choose.”

  There was a steady, dull ache at the back of his head, but Costa knew somehow this signalled the return of his faculties, not the failure of them. Life, his father had said from time to time, often depended upon the ability to drag oneself off the floor and learn to return to the fray anew.

  “No, signora,” he said quietly. “We live in a world where the law has become an instrument that protects the wicked, not the innocent.”

  A memory rose from the previous day, a single useful fact, prompted by Rosa Prabakaran, one he had filed, wondering if it would ever be of use.

  “ ‘Run quick, poor Simonetta!’ ” Costa recited. “ ‘A sport in the blood.’ You hate black women, Franco. Why is that? Would you care to tell us?”

  It hit home, and that felt good. Malaspina’s swarthy face turned a shade darker.

  “I would guess,” Costa pressed, “that it stems from something personal. Some experience. Some knowledge. Some grudge . . .”

  Agata stirred with a sudden interest by his side. Smiling, she rose and walked towards Malaspina, placing her face close to his, examining his features with the same curious, microscopic interest she would normally reserve for a painting.

  “Something personal? Why, Franco?” she asked. “The Malaspinas are cousins to the Medici, aren’t they? Is that the line? Oh! Oh!” She clapped her hands with glee. “I think I see it now. In Florence, in the Palazzo Vecchio, Giorgio Vasari has a wonderful full-length portrait of Alessandro de’ Medici. The first son. A dark-skinned man, Franco. With his helmet and his armour and his lance. And a black slave, Simonetta, for a mother.” She hesitated to emphasise what was coming. “Which gave him his hatred of anyone who reminded him of his bloodline. Is that you, too, Franco? Are you more a Medici at heart? Is the blood you hate most really your own?”

  The effect was astonishing. Malaspina rose from his chair, livid, out of control, and began to bellow a stream of vicious threats and vile obscenities, so violent and extreme it was his own lawyers who raced to silence the man and drag him, still screaming from the room, down the stairs and out into the garden, where he stood for a good minute or more, yelling up at the window.

  Every sentence seemed like a blow to her. Agata Graziano had surely never experienced words or threats like this, or expected that her idle taunt would generate such a response.

  She listened, shocked, pale, glassy-eyed, until she could bear no more and placed her small, flawless hands over the wayward hair above her ears.

  Two

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, AFTER SILVIA TENTORI HAD LEFT the bedroom issuing warnings and threats in all directions, Peroni brought coffee for them all provided by Bea and said, “We could arrest him for that performance. Threatening words and behaviour.”

  “For how long?” Costa asked. “You saw those lawyers.”

  Agata still looked shocked, and a little ashamed, at the effect her words had had on the man. The hearing was over. They had lost everything, in conventional judicial terms. And yet . . .

  “You touched something,” Falcone suggested. “But what?”

  “I have no idea,” Agata answered. “I was simply being mean and horrible. Taunting Franco. The Malaspina clan was related to the Medici. Everyone knows that. They survived when the Medici died out. He makes the odd racist comment from time to time. It always struck me as odd. There had to be the possibility of some distant link with Alessandro, and that meant he had some black blood himself. All the same. The idea he would respond so violently . . .”

  She shook her head, thinking. “I should stick to paintings,” she said. “This is all beyond me.”

  “You should,” Costa agreed.

  The idea raised a wan smile. “Good. Can I go home now, please? I’m tired and there are many duties I have missed. There’s nothing more I can do for you.”

  Leo Falcone looked at her frankly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Commissario Esposito will be here shortly with Dr. Lupo. We will review the case. Perhaps you should join us, for part of the conversation at least.”

  She laughed. “I’m a sister who agreed to help you identify a single painting, Leo. One you have lost, which means my work is done. I have more menial chores now. I do not belong here.”

  Falcone frowned, looking uncomfortable. “Agata, you’re the only material witness in an investigation where every other one has been murdered. Those guards the commissario put in place last night were not temporary. They are outside now. They will remain there as long as I say. You cannot return to the convent until this is over. We cannot protect you there. You must be somewhere that is private, easily secured, and accessible.”

  “Then”—she threw her small arms open wide—“where?”

  The old inspector said nothing and simply glanced guiltily at the floor.

  “Where?” she asked again.

  Costa tried to catch Falcone’s eye. It proved impossible.

  Three

  NO,” HE SAID AGAIN AS THEY SAT TOGETHER AT THE DINING room table, after Bea had thrust more coffee and cakes at them, then taken Pepe out for a brief walk. “I won’t allow it. This is a private home. Known to Malaspina. Also . . .”

  The reason was personal in a way that made it difficult to share with these people. Perhaps it was the presence of Commissario Esposito. Perhaps the problem lay inside himself. It felt awkward having Bea in the house at times. Another woman . . .

  “Nic,” Falcone broke in, “in case you hadn’t got the message by now, Franco Malaspina has many allies, and bottomless pockets. He could find anywhere we chose to keep Agata if it came to that. This place has a long drive, it’s easily guarded, and we know it.” He hesitated. “We’ve done this before. It worked. Until you broke the rules.”

  “Will you kindly stop talking about me as if I’m some kind of invalid?” Agata broke in. “What am I supposed to do here for however long this sentence is meant to be?”

  “What do you do normally?” Teresa asked out of interest.

  “Sleep, pray, think, eat, write . . .”

  Teresa shrugged. “You can do those anywhere. There’s Nic’s housekeeper here, Bea. So you have a chaperone.”

  “A chaperone?” Agata asked, outraged. “Why would I need a chaperone?”

  “I just thought . . .” Teresa stuttered. “Perhaps it would make it easier with the mother superior or whoever it is you take orders from. I’m sorry. I’m not good around nuns.”

  “She is not a nun,” Falcone interjected wearily. “Nor does she need a chaperone. But you do require somewhere safe and secure. And . . .” He took a swig of Bea’s strong coffee “. . . I hope this won’t be for long. We have . . . avenues.”

  None of them, not Teresa, Esposito, nor Falcone, looked much convinced of that.

  “Your painting’s gone, Leo,” Agata pointed out again. “You’ve just been sent away with a flea in your ear by the magistrate you hoped would give you carte blanche to enter the Palazzo Malaspina and take whatever you want. Unless I have misread the situation, you ha
ve no scientific evidence in this case.”

  “We’re drowning in scientific evidence!” Teresa cried, aghast. “Unfortunately, it now applies simply to dead people. Buccafusca, Castagna, and Tomassoni, who did things in that dreadful house in the Vicolo del Divino Amore a woman like you couldn’t imagine.”

  “I am a sister in a holy order, Doctor,” Agata said coldly, “not a child.”

  “Well, Sister,” Teresa retorted, “let me tell you this. I have had hardened police officers throwing up in that hell house these last few weeks. Don’t play the heroine until you’ve been there. The plain fact is this. I have more than enough for what I would need in normal circumstances. But a fingerprint, a fibre, a DNA record . . . they don’t mean a damn thing unless I am allowed to match them with something else, in a way that will stand up in court.”

  Agata folded her arms and looked at each of them in turn. “So I could be here for months.”

  It was Commissario Esposito who intervened. “We have plenty more possibilities to look at now. There were seventeen canvases in Nino Tomassoni’s hovel in the Piazza di San Lorenzo in Lucina.”

  She blinked and asked, seemingly amazed, “Where?”

  “In the man’s house,” the commissario replied. “Seventeen canvases. Eleven we have identified from the stolen art register. These are works that have been taken from museums as far away as Stockholm and Edinburgh. Tomassoni—and, by implication, one assumes Malaspina—was seemingly part of some illicit art-smuggling ring working on a massive scale. Perhaps this explains why our interesting count finds it so easy to gain access to the criminal fraternity when he has call for their talents. He is simply dealing with his own.”

  “Tomassoni’s house? I didn’t know where he lived. It was in the Piazza di San Lorenzo?”

  She looked directly at Costa when she spoke. Once again, the name nagged at him.

  “Yes,” Falcone agreed. “Is this important?”

  “I’m nothing but a humble sister, Leo. What would a little woman like me know?”