‘It’s pretty dark. Those big white globe things don’t really give that much light.’
‘But you saw her up here when she got in the car. I know it was dark then, too, but give me an idea. Was her skirt long or short?’
‘Oh, I can tell you that. Short, really short. I mean, getting into a mini . . . and a low-cut top. I noticed that. What should I do next?’
‘Wait and follow her home.’
‘What if she goes off with somebody? It looks like that’s what she’s after.’
‘If she does, ring me. But I don’t think she will.’
Even when the cage is open. . . .
He went back down to the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. That first morning, sitting where he sat now, he had watched her cry, squeezing sodden tissues that showed a trace of eye makeup. She was twenty-odd years old and her idea of rebellion was to throw off her daddy’s little-girl persona and go up to the piazzale in short skirt and makeup to flirt. He really didn’t believe she did more than flirt, or she’d have been gone from here long ago. And she drove Danuta to the train. So nobody belonging to the club was seen around here after the murder. No doubt Mauro would pick Danuta up at the other end. One little mystery solved, for what it was worth. He waited, alert for the sound of her car, wondering what it must be like to have daughters to worry about. He knew some of his colleagues had their daughters followed. It was all wrong, in his opinion, but seeing the things they saw, it was difficult to blame them. When it came to Paoletti, women were his property, to be bought and sold, put to to work, controlled. It was easy enough to see why he would marry a prostitute, even without his need to stop her testifying against him. But his own daughter? She was his property too, and even more dependent than the girls who worked for him. Even so. . . .
There. That was the car. A father would go to the door and say ‘What time do you call this?’ But it wasn’t yet eleven, and she was a grown woman. He heard the door, her footsteps on the stairs going up to her room. A tiny, rather pathetic rebellion against the ruler. Daniela, perhaps, was a more serious case, his as a daughter, his as a wife. The marshal was quite sure of that. He couldn’t allow her to break free, and he had a prosecutor at his service and an alibi. He could hardly have predicted his stroke, though. Whatever had gone wrong, it had to have started there.
His phone rang.
‘Is that you? Yes, she’s come in. You did well.’
‘Are we staying here all night?’
‘I don’t know. Are you tired?’
‘No!’
Anything but tired. He was evidently pleased. Well, it’s an ill wind. . . .
Another small mystery he could solve was to find out what was in what he thought of as the servants’ quarters down here, other than a broom cupboard and storage space where the cleaners kept their stuff. Somebody had been watching him the other morning from there, whatever Silvana said about the girls not arriving until twelve. He had no search warrant, but—though he couldn’t risk going up to the first-floor bedrooms, disturbing the family members, possibly provoking a call to the prosecutor—he was going to take a look in there if it wasn’t locked.
He got up and walked across to the closed door. As with the other rooms, he went through the formality of knocking before grasping the handle.
‘What do you want?’
He was too shocked to reply for a moment, though he recognized the voice.
‘You can come in.’
He opened the door. He thought of ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ or ‘I just want to know you’re all right.’ But he only stood in the doorway and took the scene in. High, barred windows like in the kitchen, a big room, a white bed. The woman was sitting in an armchair next to it, alone in the silence.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she said.
‘Signora. . . .’
‘Come in.’
He went through an anteroom with metal broom cupboards on each side and entered the big room. She was in her nightdress. She was sweating. He could smell that and the drink. She wasn’t quite drunk, though, because she had a book in her lap.
‘No, this is not a prison, Marshal. That’s what you’re thinking, so don’t say you’re not. This whole building. . . .’ She looked up at the high, horizontal windows with their thick curved grills. ‘It looks like a prison, but it was built to keep people out, not in. That’s true of my bit of it, too. I don’t do the stairs, you see. It would interfere with my drinking. So I stay here. You might as well sit down.’
He looked about him, hesitating.
‘It will have to be on the bed. This is the only chair. I don’t have visitors. I can give you a drink, though. Whisky?’
‘No, no . . . thank you.’ He sat on the edge of the bed near its foot, where there was a big television. It was on but without the sound.
She saw him glance at it before turning to her. ‘There’s never anything worth watching. It’s the colour and movement. It keeps me company, like a fire might. I suppose that sounds ridiculous.’
‘No . . . I’ve done the same myself.’
‘You?’
‘I’ve been alone a lot lately.’
She picked up the bottle. ‘You’re sure you . . . ?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t drink? Well, if you don’t need it.’ She put the bottle down on the bedside table between her chair and the bed and stroked it. ‘My best friend and adviser. I suppose you think I’m an alcoholic.’
‘No.’
‘Of course. You were at the funeral.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, some people can put on a show of being sober.’
The marshal said nothing.
‘But you’re not the sort to be convinced by a show.’
‘No.’
She drank. Her glass was a tumbler and it was over half full. She put it down and closed the book on her knees.
‘Not even the wonderful show put on by my husband, I suppose. I drink too much. Even when I don’t really want to, I still drink too much. It anaesthetises me for the evening and knocks me out so that I sleep for a long, long time.’
‘And when you wake up?’
‘I have a hangover, if that’s what you mean, and that’s the most important thing. Getting the hangover just right. It’s not a question of how much I can drink without making a fool of myself. I sit here on my own and then fall into bed. It’s the hangover that counts. The thing is to get through the afternoon in a fog, still a bit drunk and with just enough of a headache. It’s like a glass wall, keeping all their voices out. Too much makes me sick and the headache’s too painful, too little lets the voices through.’
‘And the earplugs keep the voices out, too?’
‘That’s after supper. I get through the family meal he insists on, and then I escape and shut myself in here. The earplugs keep his voice out. He shouts.’
Instinct told him he could trust this woman, but caution warned him that he couldn’t rely on an alcoholic. She was also frightened of her husband. She never said his name. There was a telephone by her bed. One call from the hospital, checking up on her, would be enough. There was so much she could tell him, but at this eleventh hour he daren’t risk the children’s lives. He must only speak to her as though the prosecutor himself were in the room.
‘If I’m not mistaken, the first time I saw you, you had more than just enough of a headache.’
‘You mean the day . . . they got me up. I can’t be got up.’
‘No. I can understand that—and I didn’t mean to disturb you now. I was checking through the building.
It’s just a precaution. Your daughter’s safely home and has gone up to bed.’
‘Where’s Piero?’
‘In bed. Frida’s with him. And I have two cars and three men just outside.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ Her ironic glance spoke volumes. ‘He won’t like it, you know, your discovering me in here.’
‘I’m sorry. I was just checking round the
house. I had no idea, otherwise. . . .’
He looked about him. The bed he was sitting on was big and its counterpane snowy white. It reminded him of Daniela’s room in the tower. Everything here was clean and simple. The door at the far side of the room no doubt led to a bathroom and he imagined that, too, being like Daniela’s. Dark blue and white. Clean and simple again—even if the cleanliness here was thanks to Frida and Danuta. Mother and daughter looked alike. Blonde, plump, and pink. Paoletti had replaced his wife with the younger, fresher version. All in the family, all under control. And if she had been underage when it started, no one could prove that now. He was too clever. He was always operating just inside the law, always in control. And yet something had got out of control . . . a messy murder in his respectable house. He couldn’t have wanted it. Something had got out of his control when he was in hospital, and whatever it was . . . he was sure it must have started with the stroke.
They’d never get him. Somebody else would get the blame for Daniela and for all the rest. Everything on paper would be in order, he was always somewhere else, and this morning’s priest would be his character witness.
‘Are you going to arrest my husband?’ She was looking at him, apparently reading his mind.
‘I . . . it’s not really for me to decide what—’
‘Of course not. That would be Fulvio’s decision. Fulvio was once a regular . . . customer . . . of mine. Had strange tastes. Preferred watching to anything. He’s my husband’s lapdog, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I think he’s frightened of him.’
He had to change the subject, steer her away from this dangerous ground.
‘You’re from the north, I remember. Do you still have family there?’
‘Family? I’ve no idea. Families. . . .’ She made a little spitting sound of disgust. ‘I worked for a family up there before I ran away. My father chucked me out at sixteen because his new wife didn’t like me, and I went as a nanny, unqualified, paid a pittance. A very respectable family. Husband was screwing me, wife threw me out. Usual thing.’
‘Why did you choose Florence?’
‘Florence . . . ?’
Did she even remember or care, shut up in here, that Florence was where she lived?
‘I went to Milan. There was this boy, Daniele, the one I ran away with. When the money ran out, he said he had contacts here and I should follow him. When I didn’t hear, I hitched a lift. . . .’
‘Did you ever find him?’
‘Of course not. I don’t suppose he ever left Milan. He’d dumped me, that’s all. I really liked him—I still think about him sometimes. I don’t blame him. We were so young, and I’d have done the same in his place.
You sure you won’t . . . ?’
‘No.’
‘You’re working, I suppose. Pardon me if I do.’ She filled her glass. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t get maudlin. I just wonder sometimes where he is, that’s all. Daniele . . . let’s hope he did better than me. Just look at me.’
‘Do you never go out? At least into the garden?’
‘Garden? I used to, when the children were young. Not now. Not here.’
‘You do go out, though. Your neighbour, Signora Donati across the road, mentioned that she sees you all going off to church on Sunday mornings.’
‘That’s him—and I don’t know any Signora Donati.’
‘No, she didn’t say she knew you—it’s just that her garden overlooks your gates, so . . . I don’t really know her myself, but her son did his military service with us, so we got talking. . . .’ He caught that ironic glance again and corrected himself. ‘I’m sorry. I had to question her because of your daughter’s death. I thought she might have seen somebody leaving here that morning.’
‘And did she?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose I can’t testify against him even now, can I?’
‘No.’
‘No . . . but there are more ways than one of—I’m getting a bit too drunk for this conversation, but you’ve got to understand: Everything that happens in this house is down to him, and if my daughter’s dead, it’s due to him, hospital or no hospital. I can’t testify, but I can help you, even so. He’s taken one daughter from me. . . .’ She touched a photograph in a silver frame standing behind the whisky bottle. ‘How thin she was, poor thing. It’s hard to believe it now, but I was happy that year—or at least as near to happy as I ever got.’
‘The year of her First Communion. She was happy then, too, maybe. She had that same photograph by her bed.’ He remembered it with a bullet hole, the bullet embedded in the carving of the bedside cabinet. ‘She is very thin. How old is she there?’
‘Ten. And I thought we could play happy families. He just wanted more people he could order about—you’ve got to arrest him. It’s all his fault! I know I’m drunk, but I’m telling you the truth. Whatever happened, it’s his fault.’
He wanted to say Yes. Yes, I believe you. He didn’t dare. He said nothing.
‘Have to go to bed.’
He stood up and held out his arm to help her.
‘No. I don’t need. . . .’ With a sideways movement she sat down heavily on the bed.
‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow.’
‘He’s coming home tomorrow. Come in the afternoon. He’ll be out. I heard him on the phone. . . .’
‘The afternoon, then. It could be . . .’ Could he risk it? He stuck to the script, at least, ‘ . . . that you or your husband will be asked whether there any guns in the house. The prosecutor didn’t want to disturb you by—’
‘Fulvio? If there are any guns! Like he doesn’t know there’s a collection of them. He’s here every other night. He used to drag us all to the shooting range with him. Showing off what a brilliant shot he was. And Fulvio was there, too, more often than not. If there are any guns in the house. . . .’
She was reaching for the earplugs by her bed. He could only hope that he could take her word for it, that drunkenness, sleep, hangover, and the earplugs would protect her—and Paoletti’s other prisoners until tomorrow. He left her.
He felt he shouldn’t go home. The game he was playing with the prosecutor had to be kept up. Even so, he couldn’t stand one more minute of this kitchen. He tried his best, walking around the huge room, looking at all the stuff. It was like the kitchen of a big restaurant with every kind of professional-looking equipment. Why would you need that great big bacon slicer? All that expanse of marble, lit by dozens of neon strips? Was it like the books upstairs? Had Paoletti ordered a kitchen wholesale that wouldn’t be put to good use any more than the books would ever be read? Round and round he walked, but it was no use. He couldn’t stay down there. He gave up on it, climbed the stairs and went along the flagged passageway to open the front doors. He walked across the gravel to the cars. He could hear the radio coughing into life and going off.
‘All right?’
‘Quiet as the grave. That’s us! Thank God, I’m starving.’
Another car was nosing in. The next shift.
The marshal’s driver was out of the car, walking up and down.
‘I just needed to stretch my legs.’ He got back in the car and the marshal got in beside him.
‘Are we leaving?’
‘No. I’m just going to keep you company for a while. Everybody inside is asleep.’
‘What’s going to happen next?’
‘Nothing.’
He said that more to reassure himself than anything. He’d left one of the outside lights on over the front doors. He’d have left all them all on, but the rest were on automatic timers and would only go off again. He had the keys in his pocket. Both cars had a view of the big studded doors. The ones at the other end of the flagged passageway that gave onto the gardens were locked and bolted on the inside with great iron bars. The two family cars were parked to the right of the marshal’s, under the trees.
Not to keep people in but to keep people out, she said. Prying people. People like him who wanted to uncover
the family secrets. It occurred to him that Paoletti might be aiming to make enough money to sell the club, the hotel, all of it, and distance himself from the source of his wealth. That might explain his carving up of this place. To cut himself off from his past, he needed money, a lot of it. He was on the verge of starting his new life, ready for his role as a restorer of churches, a pillar of the community, a respectable old age. The unread books were on the shelves on one side of the library, but on the other they were still in their boxes. He’d been interrupted. He’d lost control. The stroke. . . .
The marshal opened the car door.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I just want to take a look around. You stay here.’
He wanted to go back to the start. Even in the dark, he wanted to stand by the pool as he had on that morning. It might help him to see everything in the new light of Prosecutor De Vita’s involvement. He turned the corner of the tower and went round to the far side of the swimming pool to stand there. The city lay below him, its palaces illuminated. Long glittering chains showed where the River Arno snaked between the buildings. The moon was bright enough, now all that rain had washed the air. The grass under his feet was springy and wet. He turned and stepped onto the tiled border to keep his feet dry. He looked up at the tower’s silhouette in the moonlight. Had ‘the lodger’ been locked in up there, or had she tried to lock her family out? Didn’t it, in the end, come to the same thing? Whatever family had built this place and shut out the war or the plague, they’d been shut in too, hadn’t they?
Besides, you could try and shut the plague out, but cancer . . . stroke, too. He kept coming back to it. It had to have started then.
What’s going to happen next? Nothing, or. . . .
He was as sure as the mother in her drunken stupor underground that whatever had happened was Paoletti’s fault, and still it had happened in his absence.
Plague, cancer, stroke, people locked in and people locked out. . . .
No point in breaking his head over it. Once the raids were over, the arrests made, the mother would talk. Despite everything she said, she was vigilant. She was intelligent, too, like her dead daughter.
Vita Nuova Page 18
