The Garden of Evil nc-6

by David Hewson

  There was no point in fleeing the inevitable. He set his gaze on the canvas, marvelling at the full figure there, painted with such care and beauty and exactitude, it was surely the work of a master. Her flesh seemed to pulse with warmth and blood, even on the razor’s edge of an ecstatic epiphany so real, so violent, it might take away the last, precious vestige of life itself.

  “Be quick,” Aldo Caviglia murmured, and, against all instinct in the presence of such savage wonder, screwed his eyes tightly shut, waiting, one last taut breath held close inside.

  PART TWO

  One

  Gianni Peroni didn’t fit in a bunny suit. He wandered round the overcrowded storeroom looking faintly obscene, the white plastic overall clinging tightly to his large frame, its colour almost the same shade as his face. He was angry, too, and willing to make this plain to anyone who came in proximity, from Inspector Leo Falcone on down.

  It was now mid-afternoon, two hours since the Questura got the call about suspicious cries coming from the address in the Vicolo del Divino Amore. A routine visit by a uniformed officer had rapidly escalated into a full-blown murder inquiry, with Inspector Falcone deputed to lead the team. It was, Nic Costa felt, a little like old times. Teresa Lupo and her chief morgue monkey, Silvio Di Capua, were poring over two bodies, both the apparent victims of violent attacks. Scene-of-crime officers were starting to pick their way around a room that looked like a forensic team’s nightmare: spatters of wild colour, and blood and dirt and dust, were everywhere — on the floor, on the walls, on the grubby tables and chairs. It seemed much like an artist’s studio. There were easels and used pots of paint, some commercial household brands, some artistic. There was also what appeared to be a substantial canvas some way behind the two corpses on the floor, now outlined by white chalk and tended by Teresa and her team of acolytes. Costa knew that he would have to see that before he left, but for now he would leave it as it was, hidden under a green velvet coverlet so large it draped down both back and front, obscuring it from view entirely.

  Some things had changed, though.

  “Sovrintendente.”

  Falcone’s voice echoed clear and commanding in the cold empty space. Costa daydreamed. He’d spoken to Emily on the journey over. She was in a class at the architectural school in the Piazza Borghese, no more than two minutes’ walk away. Costa had mentioned his destination, though not the purpose. From the warm, inquisitive tone of her voice, he knew what she’d do: walk down into the narrow, dark lane and try to take a look for herself. Emily still yearned to be in law enforcement, even though her architectural career seemed about to blossom, thanks to an internship with one of the city’s largest partnerships.

  “Sovrintendente,” Falcone repeated, more loudly. The old inspector was now almost fully recovered from a recent gunshot wound. He had a slight limp, nothing more. Inside the Questura, Falcone was once more, if not the top dog, a substantial intellectual force, the officer to whom the awkward cases were assigned. He was also a man at peace with himself again, apparently happily alone after a short, odd romantic entanglement. And, like Peroni and Teresa, utterly delighted to have attended the brief civil marriage ceremony at which Costa and Emily Deacon had become man and wife three months ago to this day.

  The senior officer leaned over and whispered into Costa’s ear, “Nic!”

  “I’m sorry,” Costa found himself stuttering. It had been a remarkable year. The tragedy of a child lost in a miscarriage, a wedding, and then, returning to the Questura the previous Monday, discovering his promotion had come through while he and Emily were on a too-brief weekend break in Sicily. “Sir,” he added.

  “And so you should be,” Falcone complained. “Your honeymoon is over, Officer. Pay attention, please.”

  While he spoke, Falcone was watching Gianni Peroni fulminate by the side of the two bodies, spitting complaints in the direction of anyone within earshot. The inspector was wondering perhaps what the big man, once an inspector himself, thought of his partner’s rise through the ranks. It was certainly a subject that had occupied Costa’s thoughts since he returned to work, and one he had to discuss with Peroni, soon.

  “What would you do in my shoes?” Falcone asked, eyes sparking with interest, hand on his trim silver beard.

  “Seal the room and keep it sealed,” Costa answered instantly.

  Falcone nodded. “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s going to take days before forensic manage to sweep this place properly. It’s a mess. We’ll need to bring in experts, and if that’s to mean anything we must make sure there is no unnecessary disturbance. Also…”

  He glanced at the manpower crammed into the cramped and jumbled space around them. There were thirteen people there, including two photographers and three civilians from the media department, two of them trainees, who were preparing what to say to the press and TV. Only seven people were serving police officers. This seemed to be the way of things lately. The investigative process was becoming muddied, mired in procedure, dictated more by lawyers than the need for the swift, clear discovery of facts and culpability.

  “I think we need to keep the numbers down as much as possible. There’s a lot of material in here. I know everyone’s careful. But all the same…”

  The inspector grimaced. “We do these things by rote these days, Sovrintendente. The first act, always, is to pick up the manual and read what it says. You’re right…”

  Having little patience with politeness, the inspector brusquely ordered the media team to get out and watched them slink towards the door, casting mute and furious glances in their wake. Then he folded his long arms and glanced towards the two corpses in front of him, a thoughtful finger momentarily stroking his silver goatee, a familiar expression of wry amusement in his angular, tanned face.

  “On the other hand,” he added with nonchalant ease, “it would appear to be a relatively straightforward matter.”

  A man of late middle age, wearing a smart suit and an expression frozen halfway between horror and simple mute fury, lay curled on his side, clutching his stomach, gripping himself in the taut, terrified agony of a vicious death. The black wooden shaft of what Costa suspected would turn out to be a large kitchen knife protruded from beneath his rib cage, staining his white shirt with a ragged patch of dark, congealing blood. Next to him was the naked corpse of a much younger woman, so thin her rib cage was showing.

  The contrast between the two was marked. The woman’s face, which had a still, bloodless beauty that transcended life, was almost peaceful. She lay on her back, legs slightly raised and akimbo, in a position that could, possibly, have been post-coital. She had short fiery red hair, which was disarrayed, as if by some kind of violence, and somewhat greasy, maybe from sweat. There was a wound in her throat, perhaps a hand’s span long and probably from a knife, logically the same one that killed the man. The cut ran down towards her breastbone, though it was not deep, it seemed to Costa, since there was much less blood than appeared on the shirt of the other victim. Her pale grey eyes, like those of her apparent attacker, were wide open, though much more distended, as if through some kind of medical condition. They stared fixedly at the ceiling in an unwavering gaze.

  Her lips were a cold shade of blue, starting to resemble the same dull tone he could see in her dead eyes.

  “He didn’t do it,” Peroni insisted.

  “He?” Falcone asked.

  “He,” the big man responded, stabbing a fat finger in the air. “Aldo Caviglia. I arrested him once for stealing on the buses. I’ve warned him twice too. He’s a petty thief. A sad, confused little guy. He steals…” Peroni looked pale. He was never happy around death. “He stole wallets for a living, for God’s sake. The last time I caught him he promised he’d stop.”

  Costa noticed something about the dead man’s appearance: a bulge in his jacket. He knelt down beside Teresa Lupo, receiving a warning glance from the pathologist as he did so.

  “Touch nothing without my permission,” the patholo
gist warned.

  “The pocket?”

  Teresa looked, saw what he was getting at, then reached into the man’s jacket and withdrew, in her gloved fingers, a woman’s expensive leather wallet.

  Peroni swore.

  “Sometimes people lie, Gianni,” Teresa told him. “It’s shocking, I know. But at least…”

  She was sifting through the contents and dropping each item one by one into an evidence bag.

  “.…He’s given you some ID for her.”

  Teresa straightened up and showed them the card. The three police officers read it.

  “French,” she said. “Might have known.”

  “Why?” Falcone asked immediately.

  “You really don’t notice much about women, do you, Leo? Alive or dead. She’s wearing mascara, so beautifully applied I can’t quite believe it. She still has perfect makeup, despite all that’s happened here. The only other thing she has on are a couple of diamond earrings too beautiful for most of us to contemplate. Also…”

  The pathologist nodded towards some large white bags beneath the paint-stained window.

  “She was wearing a winter outfit that must have cost a fortune. And the shoes. In this weather. This was not someone out for a day’s sightseeing, I can tell you that. She was dressed up for something. A business meeting. A date.”

  “Were the clothes torn?” Costa asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Teresa said. “They were folded up nice and neatly, the way you do before you go to bed.” She glanced again at the card. “Perhaps she was doing business on behalf of the Louvre.”

  Falcone coughed into his fist.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she added. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “Very much so,” Falcone agreed. “Did they have sex?”

  Teresa dropped the card in the evidence bag, passed it to Di Capua, and frowned down at the dead Caviglia on the floor.

  “These two? No. I am guessing here. I’ll tell you more later, once we have them back in the morgue. But some sneaking feminine intuition tells me that couples who expire post-copulation rarely do so with one partner naked and the other fully dressed and looking like he’s going to an interview with his bank manager. Even his zip’s done up, Leo. Think it through for yourself.”

  “She is naked,” Costa pointed out.

  “I said ‘they’ didn’t do it. She did. And rough sex, too, though not necessarily rape. There’s minimal bruising. Unprotected, though. I’ll have your DNA sample ready first thing in the morning. A good dinner says it isn’t that of our light-fingered friend here. Nor,” she added quickly, “do I think she killed him. It’s just meant to look that way, and not well orchestrated either. Someone was in a hurry. Look at the details. She’s on the floor. And there’s a perfectly good chaise longue over there. Why would they get down to it here? We would also have to assume that she killed him first, then expired herself. Remarkable in itself, and even more so if she then managed to lie down flat, quite unclothed, on a cold stone floor, all ready for the grave. No—”

  Falcone held up a lean, tanned hand, demanding silence. “Enough,” he said quietly. “Leave us something to do. Please. Clearly we are meant to believe something here.”

  “Aldo Caviglia couldn’t hurt a fly,” Peroni insisted. “Why would someone pick on a poor old soul like him?”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to find out,” Costa said automatically, and was shocked that it sounded like an admonition.

  “Thank you,” Peroni said quietly. “Sir.”

  “Blue lips,” Costa murmured, ignoring him.

  Teresa was staring at the dead woman’s face, interested, but worried also, it seemed to Costa, by the distance there had to be between a sovrintendente and an agente who was more than twenty years his senior.

  “Quite,” she said. “Do you notice the smell?”

  “I thought this whole place smelled bad,” Costa said. “Drains.”

  She grimaced, as if she’d missed something important. “It does stink, you’re right. But she has a particular smell. A little like sweaty socks, in case you’re too polite to say.”

  “Is it unusual?” he asked.

  “Not around any cops I know,” she answered. “But on a woman like this?”

  Watched by Falcone, Costa knelt down and leaned over the corpse. The smell was obvious: direct and pungent.

  “It takes an hour or so to degrade that much,” Teresa remarked.

  “What does?” Falcone demanded.

  “Amyl nitrate.”

  “A sex drug?” Costa asked, astonished.

  “Hold on there,” the pathologist cautioned. “Amyl nitrate is a very useful pharmaceutical in the right circumstances.” She was staring directly at Costa, challenging him to think. “It’s relief for angina. And emergency revival in heart cases.”

  “Blue lips,” he said again.

  “Quite.” She was grinning. “No wonder you promoted him, Leo.”

  Falcone sighed. “So this woman died of a heart attack. During sex? And the drug was there either for stimulation or to revive her?”

  “I am merely a pathologist,” Teresa replied. She held out a hand. Peroni took it and helped her to her feet. “If I’m to help you with the rest, I need to get these two out of here and safe and warm to my lair. We have everything we’re going to get in situ. Silvio can stay behind and supervise the rest. I’ll need her medical history from Paris. You don’t mind if we handle that?”

  “No,” the inspector said, nodding. “Just the medical side. You agree?”

  “Of course,” she concurred, smiling pleasantly.

  “I told you Caviglia didn’t do it!” Peroni pointed out.

  She smiled and patted his arm. “So you did. Good for you.”

  “He stole her wallet, though,” Falcone added. “He came here for some reason. He saw something…”

  The room had gone quiet. The other officers who’d been working alongside the forensic team waited, except for the pair who seemed to be lifting some loose masonry close to the rotting iron window.

  “Perhaps he saw this,” Costa suggested. He walked over to the large easel behind the corpses and, very carefully, removed the green velvet drape, exposing the canvas.

  Not a word was uttered for a good half a minute. Not a breath even, it seemed.

  “Perhaps he did,” Tereasa whispered, breaking the silence.

  * * *

  No one could take their eyes off the painting. Even the presence of two corpses, one clearly murdered, the other dead through strange and suspicious circumstances, did nothing to distract their attention from the canvas at that moment.

  Falcone walked over to join Costa, his gaze fixed on the shining naked form, three-quarters life-size, in front of them.

  “I need to know who owns this property,” the inspector ordered. “I want Caviglia checked with the rape unit just in case. Sovrintendente?”

  Costa was lost in the swirl of the painted flesh, the extraordinary expression on the subject’s face, and the entire artfulness of the work, with its stylistic flourishes, the names of which came back to him from the lost years when he’d spent most of his endless, empty free time in the city’s art galleries. Sfumato, chiaroscuro, tenebrismo…

  “Sovrintendente!” Falcone repeated, unamused this time.

  “We need to find an art specialist,” Costa replied eventually, finally able to turn his attention away from the painting. “And good security.”

  “This is a murder scene,” Falcone snapped. “Of course we need good security.”

  “I’m not an expert. But this is either a genuine and unknown Caravaggio, or an excellent attempt to forge one. Either way, I think…”

  Falcone glowered at the canvas. Since Costa had unveiled it, there hadn’t been a moment’s activity in the room.

  “The painting can wait,” the inspector grumbled, then strode over to the easel and roughly dragged the green velvet drape back across the frame and the tantalising figure of the woman.


  “Sir?”

  It was one of the pair who had been working by the window. The cop looked shocked and a little pale. The three men went over to look.

  The uniformed officers had laid out what they’d found. It was a collection of photographs. Costa picked up a couple of them.

  “These didn’t get printed in any lab,” he said. “This is cheap, thin paper. The kind you use at home on a printer.”

  Peroni leaned over his shoulder. “No lab is going to develop those, now, are they?” he observed.

  “Where did you find them?” Falcone asked.

  “There was a loose flagstone beneath the window,” one of the officers replied. “We just looked. These are just a few. There must be fifty or more in there.”

  “Keep looking,” Falcone ordered, then took the photos and spread them out on a dusty chair.

  Costa stared at the images on the flimsy homemade prints. It was clear that they had been taken in this very room. There was the same stone floor. In places he could see splashes of paint, and even a pot and a brush. In one photograph there was the corner of the green drape used for the canvas they’d uncovered too.

  There was the link. Every photo portrayed the head and torso of a naked woman. Most of them looked foreign. Some were black, with the overblown hair and excessive makeup of the African hookers who worked the suburbs.

  It was impossible to judge the expressions on their faces. It could have been rapture, sexual or spiritual. Or pain in the final moments of life.

  He turned to Peroni.

  “Do you know any of them, Gianni?” Costa asked.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Peroni roared.

  Costa cursed his own stupidity. The big man had once been one of the most effective officers working the illicit sex scene in Rome. His career had collapsed because once — just once — he’d slept with a vice girl himself.

  “I’m sorry. I phrased that very badly. You worked vice for many years, and very well indeed,” Costa explained patiently. “I think these women look like hookers. But if you thought so, too, it would mean a lot more.”