The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Well the first thing I noticed,’ says Ruth, trying hard to put one foot in front of the other in a way that is not fast and not slow, ‘was that he had been buried face down. Position is always important in burials . . .’

  ‘Say about the position first,’ Daniella had told them in a hasty briefing in the back of her car. ‘Play up the fact that it might mean that Toni was an outcast. Then say the stuff about shackles and tattoos. Leave the stone in the mouth till last. And say about his tongue being cut out. Viewers love a bit of . . . what’s the English word, Angelo?’

  ‘Gore,’ said Angelo.

  ‘We can’t be sure that his tongue was cut out,’ said Ruth. ‘With no soft tissue . . .’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Daniella silenced her with a gesture. ‘Just don’t forget to mention the vampires.’

  Now they are meant to be looking into the grave itself, both crouching on the edge of a recently cut trench.

  ‘You found something else really disturbing, didn’t you, Ruth?’ says Angelo.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth, trying not to sway back on her heels. ‘It looks as if Toni was buried with a flat stone in his mouth. It’s possible that his tongue was removed. We can’t be sure because there’s no soft tissue left.’ She looks nervously at Daniella.

  ‘What could that mean?’ says Angelo. ‘A stone being placed in the mouth?’

  ‘There have been Roman British graves with stones replacing body parts,’ says Ruth, ‘and I’ve heard of one case with a stone replacing a tongue. It was thought that this was a punishment of some sort. For treachery, perhaps.’

  ‘Cut!’ shouts Daniella. ‘That’s a good place to leave it. We can do some more filming at the laboratory. Viewers love the science stuff.’

  ‘Will you need me for that?’ says Ruth.

  ‘No, we’ll have Angelo speaking directly to camera.’

  Ruth is rather relieved.

  ‘That was good,’ Daniella tells her. ‘Viewers will love to hear you speaking English.’

  Ruth can never get used to people thinking than an English accent is exotic. She would much rather be able to talk Italian.

  Angelo is in high spirits. ‘We’ll have the filming done by the end of the week. I’m sure to get funding for the dig now. It’s been a good day.’

  ‘Except for the people killed in the earthquake,’ says Marta, carefully covering the trench with a tarpaulin.

  *

  Nelson approves of the pub. It has good beer and a menu traditional enough to promise that food will be delivered on plates and not on wooden planks. Bruno is allowed in too and is even given a bowl of water. He’s lying under the table now, sighing heavily but otherwise behaving well. Laura’s boyfriend, Chad, seems pleasant enough, although sporting the kind of micro-beard that makes Nelson itch to hand him a razor. He’s from Sheffield, which is decently northern even if it’s Yorkshire and not Lancashire. He doesn’t drink, because he’s driving, so Nelson can’t judge him on his choice of beer (it would be hard to come back from a shandy) but obviously he approves of such responsibility. One good thing about Michelle being pregnant is that she’s always the one driving.

  They have ordered lunch and are chatting in a desultory way when Nelson becomes aware that the TV is on in the background. He’s not keen on televisions in pubs unless they’re showing football, but he takes a glance in case there’s a match on. Instead he sees grainy newsreel shots and the running footnote that he always associates with disasters.

  Earthquake in Lazio, Italy. Many feared dead.

  *

  Ruth was right. Shona seems very keen on the candlelight Mass. ‘It’s the right thing to do,’ she says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ruth isn’t about to let her get away with that.

  ‘With the earthquake and everything,’ says Shona vaguely. ‘Do you think we’ll have to cover our hair?’

  ‘You’ve been reading Margaret Atwood again,’ says Ruth. ‘This isn’t The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s just Sunday Mass. I think wearing mantillas went out in the fifties.’ She is slightly shaken because Kate, too, seems determined to go to church. She has recently started talking about First Holy Communion, an arcane induction ritual enjoyed by some of the pupils at her school which seems to involve eight-year-old girls dressed as brides. Ruth had Kate christened in a Catholic church to please Nelson, but this is going too far.

  When they walk down to the church – Shona in a grey dress which has a definite nun-like vibe – they find a crowd of people on the steps. Ruth spots Marta with a woman who could only be her mother. In fact, the crowd is almost exclusively female – mothers with young children and smartly-dressed older women. There’s not a mantilla to be seen.

  ‘Why aren’t we going in?’ says Kate.

  ‘I think the doors are still locked,’ says Shona.

  ‘Don Tomaso definitely said six,’ says Ruth. She remembers that he also said he had something to show her. What could that be? Somehow the priest seems to think that a few confidences over the home-made wine have made them kindred spirits.

  ‘Maybe it’s not safe because of the earthquake,’ says Shona. Although there is still police tape around the graveyard, the entrance to the church is clear and there’s a handwritten note on the wall reading ‘Massa a sei’ signed Padre Tomaso.

  Elsa comes over to them. ‘Is very strange,’ she says. ‘I come early to see if I can help, but I knock on door and no answer.’

  ‘Is there another way in?’

  ‘Round the back,’ says Elsa. ‘Will you come with me, Ruth?’

  Ruth is not keen – she thinks that it’s rather a cheek for her, a visitor, to be using the private entrance to the church – but she can hardly say no. Leaving Kate with Shona, she follows Elsa under the tape and into the graveyard. It looks stranger than ever in the late afternoon light, the graves tilted at grotesque angles and deep fissures scarring the earth. Ruth longs to look into one of the crevices – she’s almost sure that she sees a gleam of bones. But Elsa hardly seems to notice. She follows the wall until she comes to a small black-painted door. She turns the handle and it opens.

  ‘Don Tomaso?’ she calls. ‘Padre?’

  They are in a passageway, but the church smell is overpowering: candles and incense and flower stalks. Suddenly afraid, Ruth tries to speak, to stop Elsa going any further, but the older woman has already moved through the connecting doorway. Ruth can hear her feet on the stone floor and then a sudden exclamation, half gasp, half scream.

  ‘What is it?’

  Ruth enters the church, aware of a high ceiling and a plethora of gloomy oil paintings. And there, on the high altar, is Don Tomaso. The crucified Christ looks down on him sorrowfully and Ruth knows immediately that Don Tomaso, like the saints all around him, is dead.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Don’t touch him,’ says Ruth.

  ‘But I must . . .’ Elsa is leaning over the body, feeling for a pulse. But Ruth hears Nelson’s voice, as clearly as if he is standing in the church beside her: Don’t touch the body, don’t contaminate the scene.

  ‘We must call the police,’ she says. ‘The carabinieri? Do you know the number?’

  ‘The police?’ Elsa looks at her as if she doesn’t understand. Her eyes have a glazed look and Ruth hopes that she isn’t about to faint. ‘I call the ambulance,’ says Elsa.

  ‘Call the police too,’ says Ruth.

  She thought at first that the priest must have been killed by falling masonry or something connected to the earthquake but, coming closer, Ruth sees that Don Tomaso is lying on his back with his arms spread out, echoing the figure on the cross above. And, though there are no falling beams or dislodged bricks anywhere around him, there’s a telltale mark on Don Tomaso’s forehead – it looks as if he has been hit with great force by a heavy object. There’s something else, too. Ruth leans in, trying to see.

  ‘I call them.’ Elsa’s voice seems to come from a long way away. ‘The polizia, not the carabinieri.’

  ‘You shoul
d sit down,’ says Ruth. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock.’

  She guides Elsa to a pew at the front of the church. Elsa crosses herself when she sits down. Her hand is shaking. ‘He was like my brother,’ she says. ‘I know him all my life. He was a holy man. A saint.’ She starts to shiver. After a moment, Ruth puts an arm round her. Elsa continues to shake, muttering under her breath. At first, Ruth is rather alarmed, but then she realises that Elsa is praying. The prayer, something in Latin repeated over and over again, seems to have a calming effect. Elsa starts breathing normally and the shaking stops. Ruth lowers her arm and looks around her.

  The church is dark and cavernous. Every inch of wall space seems to be filled with paintings of dead and dying people: crucifixions, beheadings, an arrow in St Sebastian’s breast, John the Baptist’s head on a plate. A frieze, white figures on a blue background, runs along the top, and even the ceiling is painted with what looks like the Last Judgement. There are statues too, in alcoves and niches, staring out from the shadows. What makes these especially disturbing is that they are clothed, some in priest’s garb, some in vaguely medieval dress. It has the effect of making the figures look not more alive, but less so, like corpses in open coffins, dressed in their best clothes. Ruth thinks of Don Tomaso’s words to Angelo: Concentrate on the living. Never, she thinks, has she been in a place more obsessed with death.

  The high altar is plainer, with a simple wooden table and a modern woodcarving of the crucifixion. One heavy pewter candlestick stands on the altar. Where is its twin? wonders Ruth. Could this have been the murder weapon? She realises that, although candles abound – in tiers before every dressed-up saint and every ghoulish oil painting – none of them are lit. The electricity must have come back on. Ruth seems to remember a single, low-voltage bulb in the passageway. But the church is dark apart from a hazy, diffused light filtering in through the stained-glass windows. There is just one flickering candle, by the door, a single flame before an image of the virgin: blue cloak, white robe, eyes rolling upwards. This candle is new, tall and upright. It must have been lit fairly recently.

  Elsa is still praying. She seems oblivious to Ruth’s presence. Ruth gets up and walks over to the candle. She doesn’t touch it but she sees an indentation on the soft wax which must harbour a fingerprint. She goes over to the main doors. They are still locked. Surely the police and ambulance will want to come in this way? Ruth pulls back the bolts and opens one of the heavy wooden doors. Sunlight rushes in, along with voices from the crowd outside. People push forward. Ruth can’t understand what they are saying, but she hears the words ‘Don Tomaso’ repeated over and over again. She looks across the heads for Shona’s red hair and beckons her forward, trying not to open the door any further.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve got to stay here for a bit. Can you take the children home?’

  ‘What is it?’ Shona’s eyes are bright.

  ‘Don Tomaso’s dead.’

  ‘No!’

  The women behind Shona move closer. For a moment it looks as if they are going to barge their way into the church, but then the ambulance roars into the square and parks at the foot of the church steps. A police car follows with a squeal of tyres. The crowd parts to allow the officials through. Ruth just manages to wave at Kate in what she hopes in a reassuring way and to tell Shona that she’ll see her later. Then she opens the door.

  *

  The ambulance men don’t take long to ascertain that Don Tomaso is dead. They then have a long discussion with the policemen. Ruth can’t understand what they’re saying, but she’s pretty sure that the police must be saying that they need to call in forensic teams before the body can be moved. Sure enough, the ambulance men retreat – Ruth can only wonder what the crowd outside are making of all this – and the older and more senior-looking of the two policemen approaches Ruth and Elsa.

  He speaks to Ruth first. His accent seems harsher than Angelo’s, and while she can sometimes get a word or two when Angelo or Elsa speaks, this is impenetrable. She looks helplessly at Elsa who, luckily, seems to be back in control. Elsa speaks to the policeman and then turns to Ruth.

  ‘Commissario Valenti wants to speak to us both because we were here . . . when the . . . when we found him. The Commissario has to wait for the . . . the experts . . . then he will talk to us. He says he will get an interpreter for you.’

  ‘Good,’ says Ruth. She wonders how long it will all take but doesn’t like to ask. The younger policeman is putting tape around the body.

  ‘Can you tell them how we came in and what we touched?’ says Ruth. ‘Also, ask him to look at the candle, the one by the door. That must have been lit recently.’

  Elsa looks curious, but she speaks to the older policeman. He looks a bit like a Roman emperor, thinks Ruth, with a hooked nose and a crest of grey hair. He listens, frowning, but Ruth is pleased to see that he immediately goes to look at the candle. Watching Valenti in action makes Ruth think of Nelson. She knows it’s pathetic, but she can’t help wishing that he was here. She remembers, too, that Angelo described the local police chief as a fascist. Is this Valenti?

  The younger officer now approaches. He says something to Elsa and makes a gesture towards the door.

  ‘He will drive us to police station,’ says Elsa.

  *

  The police station is remarkably like the one in King’s Lynn: a once grand house forced into public service, high corniced ceilings contrasting with stained carpets and peeling walls. The open-plan rooms are full of computers humming and people staring at screens. The best thing about the place is the air conditioning. Some of the police officers even have jumpers on.

  Ruth and Elsa are shown into a small interview room. A woman police officer makes them coffee and Ruth imagines what Judy Johnson would say about this sexist allocation of roles. Ruth is actually feeling rather cold now, so the coffee is welcome. Elsa doesn’t drink hers. She has relapsed into silence and Ruth doesn’t know what to say to her. That’s one of the problems when two people don’t speak the same language. You are always having to fall back on inanities. Isn’t it hot/cold/nice/nasty. I’m happy/sad/hungry/thirsty. Ruth’s Italian certainly doesn’t stretch to discussing the possible murder of a beloved priest and Elsa’s English seems to have dried up. So the two women sit in silence.

  After about half an hour, Valenti comes in accompanied by a woman. He introduces her as Linda Anthony. Linda smiles at Ruth and explains that she’s a civilian interpreter, a university professor in art history who sometimes helps the police. She’s obviously English and Ruth is ashamed at what a difference this makes. She feels as if she has an ally at last.

  Valenti ushers Ruth and Linda into his office. Like Nelson’s, it’s a smaller space cut out of a larger room, higher than it is wide. Valenti reminds Ruth of Nelson again, in the way that he leans back in his chair, taking control of the situation.

  Through Linda, Valenti asks how Ruth came to be at the church. She explains about the candlelit Mass and about how she came to accompany Elsa through the side entrance.

  More gruff Italian.

  ‘The Commissario wants to know if you’re a friend of Angelo Morelli’s?’ says Linda.

  ‘Not a friend, exactly.’ Ruth hopes she isn’t blushing. ‘I’m here to advise him on an archaeological issue.’

  Linda relates this and Valenti nods impatiently. Ruth describes how she found the priest’s body and then she says, ‘I know forensics are examining him now, but I thought I saw something odd . . .’

  Both policeman and interpreter watch her.

  ‘I thought I saw a stone in Don Tomaso’s mouth.’

  ‘A stone?’ Valenti is startled into English.

  ‘Yes, a flat stone. I couldn’t be sure, because I didn’t want to touch the body. But, if so, it’s strange, because the body I’m examining for the dig, the Roman skeleton, it had a stone in its mouth too.’

  Valenti says something to Linda, who turns to Ruth. ‘How many people would hav
e known about the stone?’

  ‘Well, Angelo, of course. Marta and Roberto, his students. I don’t know their surnames. There were others on the site yesterday. About six people. More students, I assume. Oh, and Daniella di Martile and the TV people. They were filming me talking about the bones.’

  ‘Has this discussion been on television?’ Valenti asks through Linda.

  ‘No. They only filmed it today. I don’t think it will be aired for a few months.’

  ‘Signora Galloway’ – Valenti turns to Ruth again – ‘do not tell anyone else about this detail.’

  ‘I won’t,’ says Ruth. ‘And it’s Doctor Galloway, actually.’

  Valenti looks at her intently for a few moments, then scribbles some notes on his pad. Then he says, in English, ‘Has Dottore Morelli told you that he fears for his life?’

  Ruth is shocked, not least by the fluently phrased question. ‘He has mentioned some incidents . . .’

  Valenti has apparently exhausted his English because he turns to Linda again. She says, ‘Do you know if Dottore Morelli suspects anyone?’

  ‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘He says that maybe people are jealous . . .’

  Valenti obviously understands this because he laughs.

  ‘You stay in Pompeo’s flat?’ he asks Ruth.

  ‘Pompeo? Oh, Angelo’s grandfather. Yes.’

  ‘Pompeo was a big hero to some,’ says Valenti. ‘But not to me. Or to Don Tomaso.’

  Ruth wants to ask him what he means, but she doesn’t know how to phrase the question, in any language. Valenti stands up. Clearly the interview is over.

  Chapter 18

  In the square the next morning it’s as if there’s been another earthquake. People are sitting at the tables in silence, staring into their coffees. Even the fountain is still. Others are standing outside the church, staring up at the arches and the colonnade as if they might have the answer to the question on everyone’s lips: how and why did Don Tomaso die? Flowers already fill the steps and, as Ruth watches, two elderly women approach and place a bouquet on the lowest stair. Then they stand there, staring, with the others.