The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  Michelle is in the sitting room. She is watching one of those programmes where people buy rubbish at car boot sales and then seem surprised that it isn’t worth anything.

  ‘Hello, love,’ says Nelson, stooping to kiss her. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Michelle looks pale, and she hasn’t changed out of her work clothes, a sure sign that all isn’t well. ‘I still feel a bit sick though. I couldn’t face starting supper. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. I can put some chops on. Master Chef, that’s me.’

  ‘You hate MasterChef,’ says Michelle, but she manages a faint smile. ‘I don’t think I could manage a chop. I’ll just have toast or something.’

  ‘You should eat properly,’ says Nelson, fending off Bruno, who has brought him his lead as a hint. ‘When’s your next check-up?’

  ‘It’s the scan next week,’ says Michelle. ‘I told you.’

  ‘So you did. Exciting stuff.’ He remembers the thrill of seeing Laura and Rebecca on the screen, tiny shapes that, hard as he tried, he was never able to assemble into a baby. This time, though, he feels nervous. It’s not a concrete fear. They have already had the dating scan and the screening for Down’s Syndrome. As an older mother, Michelle is receiving extra care and attention. ‘A geriatric mother,’ she told him after her first visit to the midwife, ‘that’s what they’re calling me.’ Nelson had sympathised, but he does feel that there is something odd about having a baby at their time of life. He’ll be eligible for a Saga holiday in two years. And he feels nervous about this scan because he has the ridiculous notion that they will be able to tell, from the cloudy shape on the ultrasound, whether the baby is his or Tim’s.

  He immediately feels disloyal and, to cover it up, kisses Michelle again. ‘Good to have the place to ourselves, isn’t it?’

  Michelle smiles, a stronger effort this time. ‘Yes, though Laura’s really good. She’s done all the shopping this week.’

  ‘She does it all on the computer.’

  ‘Yes, but it still takes some thinking about. I can’t even think about food at the moment.’

  ‘What about some tea and ginger biscuits?’ That worked with Michelle’s previous pregnancies. Nelson has a sinking feeling about Laura doing the internet shopping. That means that the groceries will be high on quinoa and brown rice, and low on biscuits.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ says Michelle. ‘Thanks, Harry.’

  Nelson goes to the door, accompanied by Bruno, still carrying his lead in his mouth. In the doorway, he pauses, ‘You haven’t seen anyone hanging around outside the house today, have you?’

  Michelle looks up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ says Nelson. ‘Just that I saw someone in the street the other day. A stranger. I wondered what he was doing here.’

  ‘Honestly, Harry,’ says Michelle. ‘You’re so suspicious of everyone. It was probably just somebody who was lost.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Nelson, ‘you’re probably right.’ Louise Webb, née Martin, would probably say that her husband is a lost sheep who has been gathered into the Christian fold. The jury is out as far as Nelson is concerned.

  ‘Ginger biscuits coming up,’ he says. Bruno gives a staccato bark of encouragement. He understands the word ‘biscuit’.

  *

  Ruth doesn’t mention the skull in front of Shona. She waits until the children are settled in front of another Disney classic and Shona has gone off to ring Phil. Angelo seems to be hanging around, so Ruth asks if he’d like a cup of tea.

  ‘Ah, this English obsession with tea.’

  ‘Is that a yes then?’

  ‘No, thank you. I should be going. I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘For the TV interview.’ Ruth has forgotten all about the interview. ‘We’ll meet at my mother’s apartment in Arpino. You’ll like my mother. She’s very interested in history. And in everything, really.’

  Ruth can’t really imagine Angelo with a mother. She’s probably a little woman swathed in black who adores her only son. Ruth follows Angelo to the door.

  ‘What was that skull doing on our doorstep?’ she says.

  ‘So you saw that, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Angelo. ‘It was an animal’s. A dog’s, I think. Another animal must have left it there.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Ruth. ‘Someone writes a message on our door, telling us to go home, and now there’s a skull on our doorstep. And what about the gunshot in the night? There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  Angelo regards her for a moment, one hand on the door, then he says, ‘These things aren’t aimed at you.’

  ‘Who are they aimed at? You?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Angelo.

  ‘Maybe? Who else is there?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Angelo pauses again. ‘Maybe my grandfather.’

  ‘Your grandfather? I thought he was a war hero?’

  ‘To some, yes. But not everyone sided with the resistance.’

  ‘You mean . . . fascists?’ This is an alien word to Ruth, an extremist’s word. She knows about the far right – there’s a strong UKIP vote in Norfolk, after all – but the word fascist conjures up images of goose-stepping troops, swastikas, pictures from a grainy newsreel.

  Angelo grimaces. Perhaps the word is alien to him too. ‘Not fascists,’ he says. ‘People who supported Mussolini.’

  What’s the difference, thinks Ruth. ‘You think some passing blackshirts left the skull on our doorstep?’ she says. She is doing sums in her head. Surely any surviving Mussolini supporter must be at least ninety years old. Are they being targeted by some lunatic nonagenarian?

  ‘Not everyone agrees with armed rebellion,’ says Angelo. ‘Look at Fregellae. I’m sure there were some people there who thought it might be politic to side with the Romans. And they would probably have been right.’

  That was two thousand years ago, thinks Ruth. But she says nothing. She is beginning to think that time is a relative concept in Italy.

  ‘I’ll take the skull back to the lab,’ says Angelo in a conciliatory tone.

  ‘Maybe you should take it to the police.’

  ‘I know the police chief here,’ says Angelo. ‘And he’s a fascist if I ever saw one. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And he’s gone.

  Ruth is still staring at the door when Shona appears, phone in hand. ‘Phil says hello. He’s been working closely with Nelson, he says. He thinks those bones on the building site were probably Roman.’

  ‘Then it’s not a police matter,’ says Ruth. She wonders whether Phil’s bones were buried face down. She longs to see them.

  ‘No. Phil’s trying to get funding for an excavation,’ says Shona. ‘He’s got the press involved.’

  I bet he has, thinks Ruth. ‘Don’t talk to me about the press,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to be interviewed for Italian television tomorrow.’

  ‘How exciting,’ says Shona. She managed to get herself on screen for Women Who Kill, and very fetching she had looked too.

  ‘It’ll all be in Italian,’ says Ruth, aware that she is sounding grudging and ungrateful.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Shona. ‘Angelo will translate. He speaks brilliant English, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘He seems to be brilliant at everything. Languages, archaeology, swimming.’

  Shona looks at her curiously. ‘Don’t you like him? I thought you were old friends.’

  Ruth feels ashamed of her snarky tone. ‘I do like him,’ she says. ‘I’m just feeling a bit tired. Too much sun.’

  ‘Poor you,’ says Shona. ‘Why don’t I give the kids their bath and you can have a rest? Have a glass of wine and watch Italian TV. You might see that weird game show again.’

  Shona is being so nice, thinks Ruth. After all, she didn’t have a sleep in the car. She should be the one resting. But she appreciates the peace, as she sits in the space-age kitchen un
der the ancient beams, drinking her tea. She doesn’t know why she feels so unsettled. It’s almost as if she’s homesick, but she hadn’t thought that she could feel homesick if Kate was with her. Maybe she misses Flint. That’s it. She will ring Bob later and get an update on Flint’s progress. After all, there’s no one else she could be missing, is there?

  Chapter 13

  As soon as she sees Angelo’s mother, Ruth feels ashamed of her cultural preconceptions, because Elsa Morelli is slim and extremely attractive, with short, streaky hair. Angelo told Ruth yesterday that he was forty-five, which must make Elsa at least in her mid-sixties, but she bounds up the stairs to her apartment like a teenager. Ruth follows at a slower rate, feeling fat and unfit.

  ‘We are top floor,’ says Elsa. ‘Nice view but boring’

  She speaks good English, though with a tendency to leave out the articles.

  ‘You park car?’ she says, over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo, ‘by the piazza.’

  ‘That car is too big,’ says Elsa. ‘Me, I drive small car.’

  ‘Me too,’ pants Ruth. She hopes they are nearly at the top floor.

  But the view is certainly wonderful. Arpino is another picturesque hilltop town, allegedly the birthplace of Cicero, and Elsa’s balcony looks out over the valley; the now familiar olive groves, the winding road, the glimpses of the river. Elsa ushers Ruth into a sitting room that is comfortable and over-furnished, glittering with sunlight reflecting on ornaments and silver picture frames. It has none of the starkness of the apartment where Ruth is staying in Castello degli Angeli. Ruth has often wondered what happened to all of Angelo’s grandfather’s belongings. She is sure that he can’t have lived in minimalist splendour, surrounded by gleaming marble and state-of-the-art appliances.

  ‘Coffee?’ says Elsa, plumping up cushions and fiddling with flower arrangements. ‘Or tea? Tea for two? I make special cakes for TV people.’

  ‘Don’t bother about them,’ says Angelo. ‘They probably had a nice juicy plate of cocaine for breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, you.’ Elsa aims a playful swipe at him. ‘What would you like, Ruth? Tea?’

  ‘Coffee, please,’ says Ruth. She doesn’t want to seem like the sort of English person who has to be given tea wherever they go. She sits on a gold brocade sofa, enjoying the air conditioning and the faded glamour of the room: bookcases, velvet curtains, etchings of Rome, a plethora of photographs. Is that Angelo on the piano, scowling in a graduation gown? Or is he the little boy in a sailor suit, in pride of place on the mantelpiece? On the table next to her there’s a faded photograph of two young men, arm in arm, with rifles slung on their backs.

  Angelo sees her looking. ‘My grandfather, Pompeo,’ he says, ‘with his best friend, Giorgio. This was them out hunting before the war.’

  ‘What happened to Giorgio?’

  ‘He died in the war,’ says Angelo. ‘Shot by the Nazis. They never found his body. It broke my grandfather’s heart. I was very close to Nonno. I saw a lot of him in his last years.’

  That’s a long time to live with a broken heart, thinks Ruth. It also slightly changes her view of Angelo, that he was close to his grandfather and visited him in his old age. Maybe that’s why he was left the apartment and why he changed everything in it, so he wouldn’t be reminded of his nonno. She looks more closely at the picture. The black and white image gives little away: two dark heads, two grins, two swaggering poses. The background is more informative – she recognises the valley immediately, and the ruined tower that she can see from her balcony.

  Elsa comes back into the room, carrying a tray. ‘Caro Papa,’ she says, but cheerfully and without sentiment. ‘That was his best friend. Granddaughter still lives in Castello.’

  ‘Great-granddaughter,’ says Angelo. He seems nervous, constantly looking out of the window that opens onto the town square. ‘They’re due at ten,’ he says. ‘It’s nearly ten now.’

  ‘Who’s coming again?’ asks Ruth. She is becoming more nervous by the second. At least when she filmed Women Who Kill she’d been able to cover up with an anorak because it was outdoors. But in the Italian summer there is nowhere to hide. She’s wearing cotton trousers and a loose blue top. She thinks she’ll look like a Smurf beside Angelo in his white shirt and jeans.

  ‘Daniella di Martile,’ says Angelo. ‘She’s the producer and the director. You used to get a whole crew of people filming these things but now there’s only one or two. Daniella edits, as well. She’ll probably bring her researcher with her.’

  Elsa says something in Italian, and Angelo answers with a laugh. Ruth thinks she catches the word ‘inglese’.

  ‘I write about the interview on the Castello website,’ Elsa tells Ruth, putting a tiny gold cup next to her. ‘I am hot shot reporter.’ Elsa seems to know a lot of slightly outdated colloquial phrases. This one reminds Ruth of Lois Lane in childhood comics. Now Elsa is asking if she takes sugar, ‘one lump or two?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Nor me,’ says Elsa. ‘I never take sugar. I have to watch my figure.’ Since Elsa is approximately the width of a stick insect, Ruth rather doubts this.

  ‘Mamma looks after the town website,’ says Angelo, from his position by the window. ‘She writes a blog and she knows everything about everyone.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says Elsa comfortably, sitting beside Ruth on the sofa. ‘I know all about you, Ruth.’

  ‘Really?’ Ruth looks at Angelo, who gives her one of his sardonic smiles.

  ‘I know you have beautiful little daughter,’ says Elsa. ‘Are you married?’ Angelo gives a stifled groan.

  ‘No,’ says Ruth.

  ‘Angelo was married once,’ says Elsa. ‘Pretty girl, but not . . .’ She searches for a word.

  ‘Faithful?’ suggests Angelo.

  ‘Happy,’ says Elsa at last.

  ‘Angelo has beautiful daughter,’ says Elsa. ‘I miss her. Next year she comes to me for the whole of summer.’

  ‘That’s not decided yet,’ Angelo begins. Then he breaks off, leaning out of the window. ‘That’s Daniella,’ says Angelo, leaning out of the window. ‘I’ll go down.’

  In the silence that follows his departure, Elsa looks encouragingly at Ruth. ‘Angelo is good man,’ she says. ‘But he needs someone.’

  Don’t we all, thinks Ruth.

  *

  Daniella di Martile is another scarily slim, attractive woman. She’s wearing a sleeveless yellow dress and looks not unlike Audrey Hepburn. Why are all Italian women so thin, thinks Ruth. You’d think all that pasta would be fattening, but maybe they don’t have thirds plus whatever their children leave on their plates too. Ruth has plenty of time to admire Daniella’s figure as she prowls around the room, looking for camera angles.

  ‘Ricco!’ She gestures at her assistant. ‘Try here. No too tight.’ She looks at Ruth with her eyes narrowed.

  ‘We film you greeting Angelo,’ she says. ‘Let’s go to the hall.’ They troop into the hall, Elsa excitedly videoing everything on her mobile phone. What’s happened to older people, thinks Ruth. She’s sure that her father thinks using a TV remote is high-tech, but here’s Elsa talking about live blogging, Snapchat and Instagram. It’s just not right.

  ‘Ruth, you climb the stairs,’ says Daniella. ‘Angelo, you greet her at the top. Not too fast, Ruth, and not too slow. Ricco, you film her from underneath.’

  Oh please, God, no, thinks Ruth.

  She climbs the stairs, trying to keep a friendly yet intelligent smile on her face. At the top, Angelo kisses her on both cheeks.

  ‘Ruth,’ he says, sounding completely natural. ‘How good of you to come.’

  ‘Cut,’ says Daniella. ‘Let’s do it again. Less out of breath this time, Ruth.’

  *

  By lunchtime they have only managed to film the greeting (Ruth kept getting the kiss wrong and once, embarrassingly, fell up the last two stairs) and a brief conversation on the landing. Now Ruth is meant to be discussing the sorts
of deductions she will be able to make about the Roman skeleton. ‘Don’t tell us too much,’ says Daniella, peering into her viewfinder, ‘leave that for the outdoor scene.’

  Ruth and Angelo are sitting on Elsa’s sofa. Ruth is sure that she is sweating. She tries to breathe normally and pull her stomach in at the same time.

  ‘What will you be able to tell us about the bones?’ Angelo says, once again sounding exactly right, warm and interested.

  ‘Well,’ says Ruth, feeling herself going red and trying to ignore the furry microphone that Ricco is waving under her nose. ‘You can tell all sorts of things from bones. Isotope can tell us where someone has been living before their death. But bones renew themselves every seven years. To find out where a person grew up you need to examine their teeth.’

  She looks at Daniella, who makes a ‘keep going’ gesture.

  ‘It is true,’ says Angelo, ‘that you can tell from bones whether someone has had a tattoo?’

  ‘Well,’ says Ruth, ‘the ink used in tattoos can migrate to the lymph nodes so, if you had the relevant lymph nodes, you could tell if a person had a tattoo, and even where it was, even if you didn’t have the limb itself. Tattoos don’t show on bones, but a tattoo that has gone septic can leave a periosteal infection and signs of this may be visible.’

  ‘Are you excited to see Toni?’ says Angelo.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth, thinking that she has never sounded less excited in her life. ‘It’ll be fascinating to see a fully articulated skeleton from this era.’

  ‘Cut,’ says Daniella, while Elsa repeats the word ‘fascinating’ as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.