The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘OK. Show her in.’ Judy leans back in her chair and tries not to look too pleased with herself.

  Judy would have known Marj for an ex-copper, or ex-forces, anywhere. It’s something in her manner, calm but contained, in the way that she sits up very straight and addresses Judy in a way that is both respectful and no-nonsense. She’s about sixty, with short white hair and brown skin that suggests she spends a lot of time outdoors. A dog walker, thinks Judy. She’s been walking their dog, Thing, while Cathbad is away, and loves both the solitude and the camaraderie of it. She enjoys greeting another dog walkers (usually by their pet’s name) and exchanging a few words without feeling bound to fall into step with them. It’s the perfect human interaction and it gets her out of making breakfast.

  ‘It’s good to see a woman behind that desk,’ says Marj. ‘I worked here for twenty years and never made it above WPC.’

  ‘I’m only here temporarily,’ says Judy, ‘I’m a DS.’

  ‘Plenty of time,’ says Marj, ‘you’re still young.’

  Judy nods. ‘How can I help you?’

  Marj fixes her with a steely blue gaze. ‘When I was working here we apprehended an arsonist called Micky Webb. Ever heard of him?’

  ‘Yes, the boss has mentioned him.’

  ‘DI Nelson put him away. A good man, Nelson. I was sorry not to see him today.’

  ‘He’s on holiday. In Italy.’

  Marj looks slightly disappointed, as if she expected more from Nelson – a more macho holiday, perhaps, like trekking in the Welsh mountains or fly fishing in Scotland. ‘Well, Nelson put him away and Micky swore he’d get his revenge. The usual stuff. He was a nasty piece of work, Micky. Killed his wife and kids in cold blood, whatever they said in court. Well now he’s out, on licence if you please.’

  ‘I know. I think DCI Nelson followed it up.’

  ‘He spoke to Freddie Burnett. He was the DS on the case. I was only a PC but I was in on the arrest and you could see Micky hated that. Hated the fact that he was handcuffed to a woman. When we got to the station he leant over and whispered to me, “I’ll get you for this, you c-word.”’

  Judy blinks, not so much at the word (one much used by the police, though not ever by Nelson) but at the way Marj can’t quite bring herself to say it.

  ‘Well, now Micky’s out and I’ve seen him.’

  ‘Seen him? Where?’

  ‘Outside my house. I live in Bungay now. Got a nice little house there. Anyway, one day I’m walking my dog . . .’

  Bingo, thinks Judy.

  ‘. . . and I see him, standing there, on the street corner, watching me. I say, “Hello, Micky. Long time no see,” and he turns and walks away without a word. Well, the next day, my dog was poisoned.’

  Judy sits up straighter. ‘What?’

  ‘Mabel was poisoned. As soon as I saw her vomiting in the garden I knew immediately what had happened and got her to the vet in time. She’s going to be all right, thank God. But I found what she’d been eating – a steak, lovely piece of meat – and took it to the lab. I’ve still got friends there. The results came back today. It had been poisoned with antifreeze.’

  ‘And you think it was Micky Webb?’

  ‘Stands to reason,’ says Marj. ‘He saw me with Mabel and he knew how to get at me. He thought, that dog’s all she’s got now. Actually I’ve got a fuller life than ever now I’m retired. The grandkids come to stay all the time. But Micky wasn’t to know that. He poisoned that steak and threw it into my garden. How else would it have got there? Mabel’s greedy, like all Westies, she’d eaten almost all of it by the time I got to her.’

  Judy looks at Marj. She believes her completely, but could Micky really be bent on revenge? The DCI had followed it up and didn’t seem worried. Judy thinks of Thing and feels her blood pressure rising. Anyone who could attack an animal like that doesn’t deserve to be at large. It was a cowardly crime too. Micky wouldn’t dare confront Nelson to his face, but he would come after a solitary woman and her dog.

  ‘I’ll pay Micky a visit,’ she says.

  ‘Good,’ says Marj, with a sudden grin. ‘He’ll hate that.’

  *

  As arranged, Nelson is at the café in Castello degli Angeli bright and early the next morning. He is pleased to see that Shona, Ruth and the children are already there. They are sitting with a bearded man who seems on very good terms with Shona.

  ‘This is Graziano,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s a friend of Angelo’s, the archaeologist I’m working with.’

  Nelson has heard rather a lot about this Angelo. He imagines him as a weedy, academic figure with horn-rimmed spectacles, or as an Italian version of Phil, prancing about in shorts, pretending he’s Indiana Jones.

  ‘Graziano’s offered to take me and the kids to the swimming pool,’ says Shona, ‘so you and Ruth can spend the day together.’ She smirks in a way that he finds irritating, but there’s no denying that a day with Ruth on her own sounds pretty good.

  ‘I’m taking Rainbow,’ says Katie.

  ‘Rainbow?’

  ‘My blow-up unicorn. I’m going to let Louis share it. Sometimes,’ she adds darkly, looking at Louis, who has discovered the chocolate centre of his pastry and is occupied by smearing it over his face.

  ‘Share nicely,’ says Nelson. ‘Are there lifeguards at the pool?’ he asks, cutting into a giggly conversation between Shona and Graziano, carried out half in Italian, half in English.

  ‘Yes,’ says Graziano, ‘and I am a trained lifeguard too. I used to spend my summers in Formia.’

  ‘Nelson’s a policeman,’ says Shona, as if this needs explaining. Graziano looks shocked, as people often do.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ Nelson asks Ruth, who has been looking at him rather sardonically.

  ‘I’d like to see Monte Cassino,’ she says. ‘The abbey, you know.’

  ‘I’ve seen the film,’ says Nelson. ‘Fine by me. I’ve got the car. Cathbad and Linda have gone to Rome by train. There are about a million pictures they want to look at.’

  ‘Linda?’ says Ruth.

  ‘Linda Anthony,’ says Nelson. ‘Apparently she knows you.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘She translated when . . .’ She looks towards the church then gives an exclamation. ‘Angelo!’

  A man is walking quickly towards them. He is dressed in jeans and a black shirt and is about ten years younger and a foot taller than Nelson’s imaginary Angelo.

  ‘Ruth!’ Angelo doesn’t bother to greet anyone else. ‘Something terrible has happened. They’ve arrested Samir.’

  The name doesn’t mean anything to Nelson, but Shona and Ruth exchange glances.

  ‘Samir?’ says Ruth. ‘You mean the refugee who lives in the ruined house?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo. ‘Apparently he was seen leaving the church that afternoon. That’s all the evidence they have. Valenti’s such a fascist. He’ll do anything to pin it on a refugee.’ He stops, seemingly aware of Nelson for the first time.

  ‘This is Harry Nelson,’ says Ruth, ‘a friend of mine.’

  Graziano says something in Italian to Angelo and Nelson thinks he catches the word ‘poliziotto’.

  ‘Good,’ says Angelo, ‘we need a policeman on our side. Ruth, you must help me. You saw the body. My mother says it was horrible. Samir would never do anything like that. He was devoted to Don Tomaso.’

  But people often kill those that they are devoted to, thinks Nelson. He’s pretty sure that Ruth is thinking the same thing.

  ‘Is that all the evidence they have?’ she asks. ‘That he was seen leaving the church?’

  ‘Apparently there’s DNA evidence too,’ says Angelo. ‘I’ve got a contact in the lab.’

  Nelson disapproves of leaks, but if Valenti can get DNA evidence in twenty-four hours, he’s either a miracle worker or a dictator.

  ‘This Samir,’ says Nelson, ‘what does he say? Has he denied it?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo, ‘but he doesn’t speak very good Italian. They’ve sen
t for an Arabic translator from Rome. We’ve got to help him.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Ruth. ‘I don’t know what I can do.’

  Angelo sighs and sits down next to them. The waitress brings him coffee without being asked. He drains it in one gulp.

  ‘Angelo,’ says Ruth. ‘I heard that you’ve found some bones in the graveyard.’

  Nelson groans inwardly. If Ruth gets into a bone conversation, they’ll never get away. Angelo smiles slightly, as if recognising and acknowledging archaeological curiosity. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘The earthquake exposed some bones. We think they’re quite modern. In fact’ – he lowers his voice, although nobody appears to be listening – ‘we think they might be the remains of Marta’s great-grandfather, Giorgio.’

  This means nothing to Nelson, but Ruth seems fascinated. ‘The one who was a friend of your grandfather’s?’

  ‘Yes. Giorgio was killed by the Nazis but no one ever found his body. Until now, that is.’

  ‘Could I look at the excavation?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Angelo. ‘It’s not an official excavation, though, and perhaps it never will be. But I could show you now if you like?’

  Ruth looks at Nelson. ‘Perhaps another time,’ she says.

  *

  Judy is at the house in Spalding bright and early. She wants to catch Micky Webb on the hop, getting ready for work perhaps, stressed and off guard. But when she knocks at the door of The Nook, she is met by a woman wearing an actual apron. ‘The Boss’ it reads, over a picture of Marlon Brando as the Godfather. Ruth wouldn’t approve. To her, The Boss will only ever be Bruce Springsteen.

  Judy shows her warrant card. ‘Is Micky in?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman’s welcoming smile falters. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’d rather explain to Micky,’ says Judy. ‘Can I come in?’ She is, in fact, already over the threshold, but it never hurts to be polite.

  Micky is sitting at a table in the sitting room, obviously waiting for the full English to be served. There are mats on the table, HP and tomato sauce, even a little vase of flowers. Cathbad always cooks breakfast for Judy and the children but even he draws the line at flowers and, being a vegetarian, bacon is off the menu. Judy can smell it frying now and her stomach rumbles. Doing without bacon is the only bad thing about living with Cathbad.

  ‘Hi, Micky,’ says Judy, sitting down. ‘I’m DS Judy Johnson from the King’s Lynn police. I’d like to ask about your whereabouts on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ says Micky, echoing his wife. He’s an insignificant looking man, balding, bespectacled. But Judy isn’t fooled. Often the most inoffensive looking people are the most deadly, because they go through life unnoticed.

  ‘Were you in Bungay at 4 p.m. on Sunday the twenty-fourth of August?’

  ‘I . . .’ Micky looks at his wife, who is standing in the doorway.

  ‘Just answer the question, Micky,’ says Judy, remembering that Micky supposedly doesn’t like women who are in authority. Why then did he marry a woman who wears an apron saying ‘The Boss’, even while cooking his breakfast?

  ‘I might have been,’ says Micky at last. ‘I like it there. I like the church, St Mary’s.’

  ‘Isn’t that where the devil is supposed to have appeared in the form of a black dog?’ says Judy, remembering the legend from school.

  ‘The devil is all around us,’ says the wife, in a pleasant, chatty voice.

  Judy ignores this. ‘What were you doing in Bungay on Sunday, Micky?’

  ‘I just went there for a walk.’

  ‘Rather a long way for a walk, isn’t it?’

  ‘I like Bungay,’ says Micky, ‘and I like driving.’

  ‘So you drove there to have a walk. And, while you were there, did you see a woman called Marj Maccallum?’

  Micky is silent. They both jump when the smoke alarm goes off, caused, no doubt, by burning toast. The Boss retreats into the kitchen.

  ‘Because,’ says Judy, ‘Marj says that she saw you.’

  ‘It’s a programme,’ says Micky in a rush. ‘You’re supposed to seek out people you’ve wronged and apologise to them. I went to see DCI Nelson but was scared to knock on his door. It was the same with WPC Maccallum. When she spoke to me my nerve failed and I ran away.’

  ‘Did you go back the next day and poison her dog?’

  ‘No!’ Now Micky looks really shocked. His wife comes back into the room and puts her hand on his shoulder. Comfort or a warning? ‘No,’ says Micky again. ‘I wouldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . I love dogs. I’d never do anything like that.’

  Judy has been looking through the files. There was a cat in residence in the Webb house at the time of the fire. It had been luckier than the human occupants and had been found, alive and well, in a neighbour’s garden a few days later. No dog though.

  ‘You can’t just come in here and make accusations like that,’ said Mrs Webb.

  Judy knows this, too, so she deliberately softens her voice. ‘Micky, I’m here to warn you that if you approach any other member or ex-member of the King’s Lynn force, you’ll be in breach of your licence. Do you understand?’

  Micky nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘DCI Nelson is keeping a close eye on you.’

  ‘He’s . . .’ says Micky suddenly, then stops.

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  Marj had said that too, and Judy believes that, by and large, it’s true. Nelson doesn’t always make the right decisions though. Had Micky been about to say that Nelson was away? If so, how did he know? Something in the home set-up didn’t seem right either. The couple were either hiding something or they were afraid. All the same, it is hard to refuse when Louise Webb offers her a bacon sandwich. She manages it though.

  *

  Ruth enjoys the drive to Monte Cassino, although Nelson’s driving seems even more terrifying than usual as they ascend the mountain and he steers the left-hand-drive car through a series of hairpin bends.

  ‘Be careful,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to die just yet.’

  ‘We’re all dying,’ says Nelson, but he slows down slightly. ‘This is some climb.’

  ‘It’s a natural vantage point,’ says Ruth. ‘It was bombed by the Allies in the war. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘I used to read Sven Hassel books when I was a boy. There was one about Monte Cassino.’

  ‘I’ve never read Sven Hassel,’ says Ruth.

  ‘So I’ve read something you haven’t,’ says Nelson. ‘Wonders never cease.’

  ‘The Allies thought that the Germans were in the monastery,’ says Ruth, ‘but they weren’t. Only civilians and monks.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s ever been proved whether the Germans were camped there or not,’ says Nelson, ‘but they were certainly in the area.’

  Ruth doesn’t think it’s worth getting into a discussion about Allied war crimes. She’s noticed before that Nelson often gets defensive when he thinks she’s attacking Britain.

  ‘It’s terrible when historical monuments are destroyed,’ she says, ‘like in Iraq and Syria today.’

  ‘It’s worse when people die,’ says Nelson. He takes the final corner too fast and veers over to the wrong side of the road.

  The words have a sobering effect. They are silent as they drive up to the car park. There, at the foot of the slope leading up to the monastery, is a new impediment: the guard refuses to let Ruth enter because she has bare arms.

  ‘You need to cover,’ he says, gesturing.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s like something from the Middle Ages. I bet men don’t have to cover up.’

  Nelson points to a sign indicating, in crude picture form, that no bare arms or shorts are allowed for either sex.

  ‘I’ve got a long-sleeved shirt in the car,’ he says. ‘It’s the one I was wearing yesterday. Why don’t you put that on?’

  Ruth almost refuses, but she wants to see the mo
nastery and, though she doesn’t want to admit this to herself, she quite wants to wear Nelson’s shirt. It’s dark blue denim and smells of him. The guard smiles thinly and lets them pass. As they walk away, they can hear him telling some German tourists that their shorts are too short.

  The newly built monastery looks as impressive as a Greek temple, its walls rising white against the sky. They walk through cloisters and archways into a stone courtyard with a well in the middle. The view is breathtaking, the whole of the Liri Valley spread out below them, each hill seemingly crowned by a particularly scenic castle or crenellated town. Italians do seem keen on building in the most inaccessible places, thinks Ruth. Even their fields look impossible, almost vertical on the sides of mountains, yet they are neatly cultivated, terrace after terrace, rows of vines and sunflowers, tiny farm vehicles moving between them.

  ‘St Benedict founded a hospital here,’ says Ruth. ‘The oldest hospital in Europe. The oldest medical school in the world was nearby, in Salerno.’

  Nelson does not seem interested in the Benedictine rule.

  ‘Tell me about this Angelo person,’ he says. ‘How come he asked you to help him?’

  ‘I suppose he’d heard of my work,’ says Ruth, still looking at the view and not at Nelson. She doesn’t want to tell him about the one-night stand in Trastevere. Not because she’s embarrassed, she tells herself, just because it would complicate things.

  ‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘Phil said that you were getting quite an international reputation.’

  ‘He did?’ Ruth can’t supress a feeling of satisfaction. ‘He’s probably just jealous.’

  ‘He’d be even more jealous if he could see Shona with her beardy admirer.’

  ‘Graziano? Do you think there’s something going on between them?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m hardly an expert on relationships.’

  There’s a short silence, and then Ruth says, ‘I came here because I wanted to get away from Norfolk for a while. To get used to the idea that you and Michelle are having a baby.’

  ‘Believe me,’ says Nelson, ‘I took some time to get used to it too.’