‘I film you at the site tomorrow,’ she says to Ruth. ‘Then you tell us what you find about the bones.’
‘It’s good stuff,’ says Angelo. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’
Daniella says something in Italian which may well be ‘I’ll be the judge of that’.
‘I should go,’ says Ruth. ‘I promised Shona I’d be back by lunchtime. We’re going to eat at the café.’
‘I’ll drive you back,’ says Angelo.
‘Thanks,’ says Ruth. ‘And thanks for the coffee,’ she says to Elsa. ‘And for your hospitality’
‘Is no problem,’ says Elsa, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘I see you later.’
Ruth looks enquiringly at Angelo.
‘It’s the cultural association dinner tonight,’ he says. ‘In the square at Castello. You’re invited. And Shona and the children, of course.’
Ruth is struck dumb. The dinner sounds terrifying. Unfortunately, Elsa takes her silence for assent. ‘Ci vediamo’, she says. ‘See you later. I die to meet Katie.’
*
The cats make Nelson think of Ruth. He’s never quite got the measure of her ginger tabby cat, Flint. The animal often chooses to sit on him, leaving behind copious amounts of orange fur, but, when Ruth is out of the room, it stares at him rather disconcertingly. I know, those round, unblinking eyes seem to say. I know all about you and Ruth, and I don’t approve. Flint wants to be the only male in the cottage on the edge of the marshes, that much is clear. And, on the infrequent occasions that Nelson imagines himself living with Ruth in that house, he has to admit that Flint isn’t in evidence.
But today Nelson is in a cattery and so there are not one, but about ten pairs of cats’ eyes staring at him. The animals are in pens, each with a basket and a scratching post, and they look quite content, but they are staring. The nearest animal, a grey furry cat with one of those squashed-in faces, lets out a staccato meow, as if warning the others. ‘Chill out, cat,’ mutters Nelson. The cat continues to stare.
Late last night, intel came up with an address for Wendy Markham, Micky Webb’s ex-girlfriend. She is running a cattery near Downham Market, about twelve miles from King’s Lynn, and so, on Saturday morning, Nelson is knocking on the gate of Happy Cats, posing as an anxious pet owner keen to see the facilities for himself. He is shown into the garden of a suburban house, lined on both sides by cat pens. The assistant, a nervous-looking girl in a plastic apron, has gone into the house to fetch Wendy because, of course, Nelson wants a word with the boss before he can entrust – what’s the name of his fantasy cat? What was that thing he used to watch as child? Bagpuss, that’s it, a fat, cloth cat that lived in a junk shop – before he can entrust Bagpuss to her care.
Wendy emerges from the house. Nelson remembers her as rather mousy looking, an unlikely femme fatale, but the years have sharpened and polished her. She now has ash-blonde hair, cut short, and a tan that looks more sunbed than Tuscany. She’s smiling, not a look that he remembers from the old days, and displaying rather of lot of orange gum.
‘Can I take you on a tour?’ she says, wiping her hands on her tight jeans before extending one to shake. ‘All our moggies are very happy here. I’m sure yours will be too.’
Nelson shows his warrant card. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
They sit in the conservatory. The business obviously doesn’t extend into the house; there’s a prefabricated shed where Wendy takes bookings and checks vets’ certificates, and inside it’s all wicker furniture and chintz cushions. A photograph on a side table shows Wendy and a permatanned man standing beside a pool.
‘I haven’t seen Micky since he went into prison,’ she says, tapping on the arm of her chair with long, coral nails. How can she look after animals with nails like that?
‘Did you know he was out?’ asks Nelson.
‘Yes, the probation office got in touch. They told me that he was out on licence. And they said he’d married again.’
Wendy had once declared undying love for Micky and, in court, he had sworn blind that she hadn’t known of the plot to burn down the house and claim the insurance. But Derek Hobson had thought that she was the brains behind the whole business. Wendy certainly looks pretty formidable, sitting at the centre of her cat empire, but Nelson is wary of putting Micky’s crimes at her door. He’s seen it before – a man kills and the armchair pundits say, ‘Of course, I blame her,’ meaning the wife or the mistress. In Nelson’s opinion, the person to blame is usually the person who committed the crime.
‘I’ve been married to Terry for eight years now,’ Wendy is saying. ‘We’ve got a good life. We go to the Canaries every winter, that’s the slow time for the business, and we’ve got an active social life. Terry’s got his golf and I do amateur dramatics.’
I bet you do, thinks Nelson. Eight years of marriage means that Wendy must have met Terry quite soon after Micky went to prison. Are there any children? There is no evidence of them in the house or in the photographs, all of which seem to show Wendy and Terry on holiday.
‘Micky’s found God,’ says Nelson. ‘Did you hear that?’
Wendy laughs. Not a particularly happy sound. ‘Really? That’ll be the new wife, I expect.’
‘Is Micky the sort of man to be influenced by his wife?’
‘Of course he is,’ says Wendy. ‘Weak as water, Micky.’ Then she stops, realising what she has said.
‘Do you think that Micky is still dangerous?’ asks Nelson.
‘No,’ says Wendy. ‘A neutered cat, that’s what he is.’
It’s an uncomfortable image. They had Bruno neutered and Nelson still feels obscurely guilty about it, even though all the animal charities insist on it. Castrated is another word for it, of course. Has Micky Webb been castrated by his marriage?
‘Will you let me know if Micky tries to get in touch?’ says Nelson, giving Wendy his card.
‘He won’t try and contact me,’ says Wendy, with another laugh. ‘It’ll be all about the new woman now. That’s what Micky’s like. When he was with me he forgot all about Marie. It’ll be the same with whatshername.’
Nelson doesn’t supply the name. There doesn’t seem any point in continuing the conversation with Wendy Markham. She accompanies Nelson to the door, and he asks her if she has any pets herself.
‘No.’ She looks quite shocked at the question. ‘Terry’s allergic and I couldn’t stand the fur in the house.’
Outside, a young couple are waiting with a cat in a basket. Nelson wants to tell them to run for the hills.
Chapter 14
‘What does one wear to a cultural association dinner?’ says Shona. ‘It’s not something you get in King’s Lynn.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Ruth. She is still wearing her cotton trousers, now with a vaguely smart top. She imagines all the other women – including Elsa – in Versace or Prada or any one of those designers who would faint if asked to create clothes for normal-sized women. She thinks that Shona, in a pale blue dress that shows off her tan, will fit in nicely.
They have spent a quiet afternoon at the apartment, the children watching DVDs, the adults catching up with emails and phone calls. Ruth took the opportunity to ring Bob Woonunga to ask about Flint. ‘He’s fine,’ Bob had said, ‘eating well and spending a lot of time asleep on your bed.’ She’d asked what the weather was like in Norfolk. ‘A bit changeable,’ said Bob, who has become fluent in British weather-speak. ‘But it’s nice today, the weekenders are down and have been kayaking.’ Bob had been for a long walk along the coastal path, renewing his astral energies. He’d met Cathbad for a drink the other day; they had discussed Halloween and the coming of autumn. When Ruth said goodbye, she’d found herself feeling acutely homesick for Flint, Norfolk, Cathbad and the coastal path.
Now, Kate and Louis are sliding around the apartment, getting thoroughly overexcited at the thought of a grown-up dinner.
‘Does Louis look smart enough?’ says Shona to Ruth. ‘I didn’t bring any of his part
y clothes.’
Louis is wearing beige shorts and a blue T-shirt; Kate is in her only dress, white with embroidered pink roses.
‘I think they look lovely,’ says Ruth. ‘And they’re children, everyone will love them. We’re the ones who need to worry.’
‘Oh, everyone will love us,’ says Shona, shaking out her mane of hair. ‘We’re new blood.’
Walking down the hill, Ruth wishes that Shona had put this differently. Not everyone appreciates new blood.
When they reach the corner by the lamp post, they can see the lights twinkling in the trees.
‘Is it a birthday party?’ says Kate, skipping with anticipation.
‘I think it’s sort of a party for the town,’ says Ruth. She has no idea what a cultural association does.
As they pass the abandoned house at the bottom of the hill, Ruth sees a movement in one of the downstairs rooms. Is the squatter still there, cooking over his camp stove? She wishes that she had thought to ask Angelo about him.
The square has been transformed. Trestle tables stretch from the café to the church, decorated with ivy and red, white and green tablecloths. A stage has been erected by the pine trees and, on the church steps, cauldrons are being stirred by men in chef’s hats.
‘Ruth! Bambini!’ Elsa comes towards them, elegant in tight-fitting black trousers and a lacy top. Ruth immediately feels scruffy and underdressed.
‘This is Shona,’ she says, hoping her friend’s beauty will make up for her own poor showing.
‘Bella,’ breathes Elsa. ‘Like Titian.’
‘This?’ Shona pats her hair. ‘In England we call it ginger.’
‘And the little ginger.’ Elsa pinches Louis’s cheek. ‘And is this Katie? Che carina.’
Ruth does think Kate looks rather pretty, with her dark hair and bright, dark eyes. Kate behaves nicely too, saying hello to Elsa and not minding too much about having her cheek pinched.
‘Angelo!’ Elsa calls across the square to where Angelo is helping arrange lights around the columns of the church porch. ‘Ruth is here.’
Ruth is touched to see Angelo leave his work and come over immediately. At least they have one friend in Castello degli Angeli. Angelo greets Ruth and Shona and fetches them red wine in paper cups and orange juice for the children. The square is filling up now and Ruth sees Roberto and Marta from the dig as well as several other faces that have become vaguely familiar over the last few days. One such figure, massive in clerical garb, comes towards Ruth with a bottle of wine in each hand. Don Tomaso, hell-bent on hospitality.
‘Dr Galloway. More wine? I make it myself.’
‘Just a little,’ says Ruth. The wine is strong and she’s already feeling slightly light-headed. She introduces Shona. Kate and Louis are already running around with the other children.
‘Piacere.’ The priest beams at Shona, and looks as though it is only fear of spilling the wine that stops him kissing her on both cheeks. Shona twinkles and tosses her hair and manages to get in the fact that she is a Catholic.
‘You must both come to my church for Mass tomorrow,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘Is a beautiful church. The church of San Michele e Santi Angeli.’
‘Does it date from the Renaissance?’ says Ruth, only too glad to admire the building, if not what goes on inside.
‘Fifteenth century,’ says Don Tomaso, ‘but was on the site of a really old church. One of the oldest churches in Christianity. Fourth century. Angelo was going to excavate but then he got distracted by the Romans in the valley.’
‘I never agreed to do the excavation,’ says Angelo. ‘And the Roman site is very important. We might have found another Fregellae.’
‘What about my church?’ says Don Tomaso. ‘What do the English say? Charity begins at home? Which is why they cannot help with the European refugee crisis.’
He smiles at Ruth, who feels unequal to defending Britain’s stance on refugees, especially as she didn’t vote for the present government. Luckily, at that moment, Elsa arrives to tell them that the food is ready.
Ruth and Shona join the line on the church steps and are given generous helpings of pasta and a rich, meaty sauce.
‘What’s the vegetarian option?’ whispers Shona.
‘Pasta on its own,’ says Ruth. ‘Good job Cathbad isn’t here.’
Ruth fills her bowl and takes a bowl for Kate, hoping she can persuade her to stop playing for moment and eat something. She and Shona sit at a table under a canopy of vines and, after a few minutes, Angelo joins them. He is accompanied by Graziano, who seems delighted to see Shona again. The three of them talk animatedly in Italian-peppered English about universities (it turns out that Graziano teaches computer science at Cassino University), books, films and whether British women are repressed. Ruth gives up trying to follow the conversation and gives her undivided attention to the food, which is delicious. She also tries to keep her eye on Kate, who is darting about like a pink and white fish, followed by a trail of adoring Italian boys. Not for the first time, Ruth reflects that Kate is far cooler than her.
‘A penny for them? That’s what they say in England, isn’t it?’ It’s Don Tomaso again, bearing a plate piled high with pasta and what looks like half a cow.
‘You know a lot of English phrases,’ says Ruth.
‘I had an English nanny,’ says the priest. ‘She was just like Mary Poppins.’
Ruth has an image of Julie Andrews floating over the rooftops of the town, singing about a spoonful of sugar. The sky is dark blue now and she sees shapes that could be bats circling the angels on the roof of the church.
‘Are you from this area?’ she asks Don Tomaso, who is tucking a napkin into his collar.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve lived here since I was a child. I’m an old man now, over eighty, but there are no new priests. Once, every big family gave a boy to God. Not now. Che peccato.’
Giving your son to God sounds sinister somehow. Ruth once found the body of an Iron Age girl who had been tied down and left on the marshes to die, an offering to some faceless, nameless deity. She thinks of Isaac carrying the wood on which he is going to be sacrificed by his father, a story that pops up quite often in her parents’ church, where it seems to be held up as an example of good parenting. Don Tomaso seems harmless enough, but she’s quite glad that the desire to become a priest is dying out.
‘I knew Angelo’s grandfather, Pompeo,’ the priest is saying, ‘and his great friend Giorgio Bianchi. I remember when the Nazis took over this town and the hills were full of resistance fighters. They were dark days. At first the Germans soldiers were gentlemen. They sat in this square and ate food from the café. Potatoes! They ate potatoes like we eat bread. I was a young boy and I used to help in the kitchen. We were peeling potatoes morning, noon and night. But then those Germans left and the SS came in. Then it was very different.’
‘It must have been awful,’ says Ruth. ‘I was saying to Angelo, I don’t think British people can imagine what it was like to live under an occupation.’
‘Our blessed Lord lived in an occupied land,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘Sometimes grace lies in unexpected places. And now we are sitting here with Pompeo’s grandson and Giorgio’s greatgranddaughter.’
Ruth looks around the table at the laughing and gesticulating townspeople. Which one is Giorgio’s greatgranddaughter?
‘Martyr,’ says Don Tomaso.
‘I suppose he was.’
‘No. Marta. Angelo’s student. She is the greatgranddaughter of Giorgio. So all things come full circle.’
Ruth sees Marta and Roberto sitting slightly apart, talking earnestly. Are they discussing the dig? It seems incredible that this slight young girl is linked to the dark days of the Second World War. But then the war is only a few generations away; Angelo’s grandfather fought in the resistance, as did Marta’s great-grandfather, Don Tomaso was actually there. As Ruth watches, a man approaches the tables on the church steps. Compared to the dinner guests, he is shabbily dressed in tracksuit bottoms
and a stained football shirt. He is unshaven and has greasy-looking brown hair tied back in a ponytail. The chefs give him a generous helping of food, but the man does not join one of the dining tables. He sits on the church steps, eating hungrily.
Don Tomaso is looking too. ‘Samir,’ he says quietly. ‘He is a Syrian refugee.’
‘Does he live in the ruined house at the bottom of the hill?’ says Ruth. ‘I think I saw him the other day.’
‘Yes,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘The commune lets him live here, but they don’t give him any kindness.’
‘They gave him food just now,’ says Ruth.
‘Food!’ Don Tomaso makes a contemptuous gesture. ‘Food is not love.’
There’s no denying that, but all the same, Ruth thinks, food is pretty valuable. As if reading her mind, Angelo leans across the table and asks if Ruth wants another helping of pasta.
‘No, thank you,’ says Ruth. ‘It was delicious though.’
‘You must eat,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘You young women are too thin.’
It’s almost enough to make Ruth become a Catholic. She gives Angelo her bowl to be refilled and she lets Don Tomaso fill her glass too.
‘Angelo is a clever man,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘I know his mother very well. We were brought up together. She was so sad when he went to live in America. I am happy that he’s home now.’
‘I thought he lived in Rome,’ says Ruth, looking over to where Angelo is offering some wine to Samir the refugee. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but she thinks Samir is refusing.
‘Rome is not far,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘And who knows, perhaps one day he’ll settle in Castello again. Perhaps he will remarry. We are relaxed about such things in the church now. Are you married, Ruth?’
‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘I had an affair with a married man and now I have a daughter.’
She has no idea why she, always so careful to maintain her privacy, comes out with this. It’s as if Don Tomaso has some strange power over her. Perhaps this is why Catholics go to confession. She wonders how relaxed the priest will be about this revelation.
The Dark Angel Page 11
