The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘In Italy it’s traditional to have the funeral very quickly,’ says Marta. ‘In the twenty-four hours after death, if possible. But we don’t know when the police will release his body. We all want the funeral here, in Don Tomaso’s church, but apparently the bishop wants it at the cathedral.’

  This rings a faint bell in Ruth’s mind, but she doesn’t know why. They have reached Ruth’s landing now.

  ‘I should be going in,’ she says. ‘Shona and the children will be back soon.’

  ‘Have they gone to the swimming pool with Graziano?’ says Marta.

  ‘Yes. Do you know Graziano?’

  ‘He was my tutor at university,’ says Marta. ‘But I don’t know him well. I know his wife better. Ciao.’ And she takes the rest of the stairs at a run.

  *

  The children get back at four, overexcited and fractious. Shona looks hot and stressed and immediately disappears to lie down. Ruth feels guilty, thinking of her lovely, adult day with Nelson, even if it had been interrupted by a visit to a police station. She puts on a DVD of Despicable Me and wonders if she should start preparing supper.

  She is staring at a chicken and wondering how to turn it into a child-friendly meal when the doorbell rings. It’s Angelo. Ruth had forgotten that he’d said he would call round. She always finds it rather stressful when he’s in the apartment, imagining him looking for marks on the marble floor or stains on the leather sofas. Louis broke another glass that morning.

  She offers coffee but, to her surprise, Angelo says, ‘Have you got anything stronger? That’s what they used to say in New York. I feel like a scotch on the rocks.’

  ‘I haven’t got any whisky,’ says Ruth, ‘But I’ve got some wine. We bought it at the supermarket. Would you like a glass?’

  ‘I certainly would,’ says Angelo, sitting at the table. Ruth pours herself a glass too, just to be polite.

  ‘Do you think the police will release Samir?’ she says.

  ‘I don’t know. The communion story does explain the DNA, and they’ve got no other evidence. Valenti’s a stubborn bastard though.’

  ‘Nelson liked him,’ says Ruth. ‘He thought he was a proper old-fashioned copper.’ She says this in rather a good Blackpool accent, which is wasted on Angelo. He is looking at her very intently. He’s a great one for staring. One of his TV fans has probably told him that he has mesmeric eyes.

  ‘DCI Nelson,’ he says, ‘is he an old friend?’

  ‘You could say that,’ says Ruth. She swallows some wine, rather quickly.

  ‘Is he Kate’s father?’

  Ruth hesitates but, sooner or later, Angelo will probably hear Kate calling Nelson ‘Dad’.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘but we’re not together. He’s married to someone else.’

  ‘That must be hard,’ says Angelo.

  ‘It is sometimes,’ says Ruth. She wants Angelo to drop the subject but doesn’t know how to do this without seeming rude. Maybe Angelo is thinking of his own daughter, all those miles away in America.

  But Angelo seems to realise that she doesn’t want to talk about Nelson. He says, ‘I have some news on the skull.’

  ‘The skull?’ For a moment, Ruth thinks he means Don Tomaso’s skull. But then she remembers: the animal skull on the doorstep.

  ‘My colleague at the university thinks it belongs to a wolf.’

  This sounds an odd way of putting it. As if the wolf is about to turn up at lost property to claim it back.

  ‘It was a wolf’s skull?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo, ‘not hard to find in these parts.’

  ‘But why would it be left on my doorstep – your doorstep?’

  Angelo shrugs. ‘Wolves are traditionally linked with Rome. You know the story of Romulus and Remus being suckled by a wolf? Maybe it’s to do with the Roman site.’

  ‘You said when we first met that some people didn’t approve of excavating Roman sites.’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Angelo. ‘Some people still see the Romans as invaders.’

  Is that still possible, after nearly three thousand years? thinks Ruth. When did the Roman Empire start? She thinks it was about 700 BCE. Can the folk memory really be that strong?

  ‘Do you still think that someone is trying to kill you?’ she asks. She remembers Valenti’s snort of laughter at the idea.

  ‘I think someone still wants to sabotage the dig,’ says Angelo, ‘but now that the TV people are involved again, I think I’m certain to get more funding. And that’s thanks to you, Ruth.’ He raises his glass to her.

  ‘I didn’t do much,’ says Ruth. ‘Just a few observations on the bones.’

  ‘But the presence of a foreign expert made all the difference,’ says Angelo. ‘Daniella loved you on camera.’

  ‘She did?’ This seems unlikely.

  ‘Yes, you were so natural and unaffected.’

  People said this about Ruth’s previous TV appearances too. She knows it’s meant to be a compliment, but she always thinks that ‘natural’ is a synonym for ‘overweight and sweaty’.

  ‘I’m glad you think I helped,’ she says. Angelo doesn’t answer; he is staring at something behind her. Ruth follows his gaze and sees that he’s looking at the picture that fell down during the earthquake. Ruth cleared all the glass away from the children’s bedroom, and the framed canvas is now propped against the kitchen wall, a strange blur of shapes and colours.

  Ruth explains what happened. ‘Do you want me to move it out of the sunlight? In case it gets damaged?’

  Angelo seems to come back to earth. ‘You couldn’t damage a picture that bad,’ he says.

  *

  No sooner has Angelo left and Ruth shoved the chicken in the oven than there’s another buzz on the intercom. This time it’s Cathbad, looking tanned and unusually conventional in a white shirt and chinos, accompanied by Linda Anthony.

  ‘I’ve brought presents from Rome,’ says Cathbad. ‘And Linda wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Hi,’ says Linda. ‘Just hoping that you’re all right after yesterday.’

  Was it only yesterday? It seems years since Ruth stood in the dark church and saw the body on the altar.

  ‘I’m OK,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s good to see you again. Would you like some wine?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ says Linda. ‘I’m exhausted. I think Cathbad wanted to see every picture in the Vatican Museums.’

  From the shrieks of delight next door it seems that the children are pleased with their presents. Ruth hopes that Shona hasn’t been woken up. Cathbad comes back into the kitchen and presents Ruth with a snow globe of the Vatican and a book about the excavations in Pompeii. Ruth agitates the glass ball and the synthetic flakes fall on the dome, the pillars and the obelisk. She remembers telling Cathbad that she had loved snow globes as a child. She’s touched that he has remembered.

  Ruth tells Cathbad and Linda about Nelson’s visit to the police station.

  ‘DCI Nelson on the case again,’ says Cathbad.

  ‘I’m glad he is on the case,’ says Linda. ‘I never thought that poor Syrian man did it.’

  ‘I wonder who did,’ says Cathbad. ‘Somewhere like this, people living in the same place for generations, there must be so many resentments simmering under the surface.’

  He says it almost with relish, but Ruth shivers. It feels too close to home, sitting in Angelo’s grandfather’s apartment, with the bones of his friend lying in the churchyard only a few hundred metres away.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Don Tomaso talked about the war as if it was yesterday. Angelo talks about the Romans as if they’ve only just left. Angelo’s grandfather was a resistance hero; so was Marta’s great-grandfather. Angelo implied that Commissario Valenti was a fascist.’

  ‘Flavio Valenti’s father was the police chief here during the war,’ says Linda. ‘People say that he collaborated with the Germans, but it must have been a difficult situation for him. He probably wanted to keep the town safe – the Nazis carried out terrible rep
risals in places where there were resistance uprisings. Valenti once told me that his father had admired Mussolini but so did a lot of people, Churchill included. And he was in power, after all. To listen to people here now, you would think that everyone was in the resistance.’

  ‘History is written by the victors,’ says Cathbad.

  ‘It’s especially important to Commissario Valenti,’ says Linda, ‘because it’s all only a generation away. His father was fifty when he was born.’

  ‘It’s true about people living here for generations,’ says Ruth. ‘These apartments seem to have been handed down through families. I’ve only just realised that Marta lives upstairs. Her great-grandfather must have lived in the apartment once.’

  ‘It’s Marta’s mother, Anna, who lives upstairs,’ says Linda. ‘I think Marta’s just staying there for the dig. I know Marta Bianchi, and Roberto Esposito too. He’s a nice boy. One of my sons knew him at school. He was mad about archaeology and about wildlife. The problem is that there are no jobs here for young people. My two oldest sons have gone to work in Rome and I’m sure Massimo will follow them.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ says Ruth.

  ‘About thirty years,’ says Linda. ‘I’m a newcomer, really. But that’s why I called. I’d like to invite you to dinner. All of you, Shona and the children too. Tomorrow night. Will you come?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ says Ruth. ‘I’d love to.’

  My last night with Nelson, she thinks.

  Chapter 23

  When Ruth goes down to the shop the next morning to buy bread, she finds out that Don Tomaso’s funeral is to be held later that day. The police must have released his body. The church doors are open and the flowers have been pushed to the side to form a pathway. Between the flowers a red carpet is being laid down.

  ‘It’s at two o’clock,’ says the woman in the panetteria. ‘The whole town will be there. The bishop himself is going to say Mass.’

  Ruth thinks she should attend the funeral. After all, she discovered the priest’s body. She is involved, whether she likes it or not. The trouble is, Shona will want to go too. She’ll say it’s out of respect, but really she’ll be drawn to the drama of the occasion. And if Shona comes, who will look after the children? Perhaps they could bring them? But she can’t imagine Louis sitting still for hours of Latin chanting and incense waving.

  Predictably, Shona says that it’s her duty to go. ‘It would be wrong not to,’ she says. ‘He was so good to us.’

  Ruth had liked Don Tomaso, but she doesn’t see that he was so very good to them. He gave them a glass of his home-made wine, that was all. But he hadn’t been judgemental about Ruth being an unmarried mother. He was a kind man, she thinks, and she’d like to go to his funeral for that reason alone. She rings Cathbad.

  ‘Of course I’ll babysit,’ he says. ‘I can send positive thoughts at the same time. Prepare libations. Strew some herbs.’

  Ruth laughs rather nervously. She’s not quite sure if he’s joking or not. ‘Just bung on a Disney DVD,’ she says, ‘and they’ll be fine.’

  ‘We’ll have fun,’ says Cathbad. ‘Leave it to me. Linda’s preparing a feast for tonight.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Cathbad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know when Nelson’s going home?’

  ‘I think he’s going to try to book tickets for an early flight tomorrow. I know he wants to get back for the scan.’

  Cathbad’s voice is understanding. He knows about Kate’s parentage, but Ruth is never sure how much else he knows about her and Nelson.

  ‘Thanks for babysitting,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you at one thirty.’

  Shona is pleased at the outcome. It turns out that she and Louis are spending the morning with Graziano. He is going to show them his grandparents’ house in the mountains. Ruth wonders if she should tell Shona that Graziano is married. But maybe she knows already? And it might not necessarily put her off. Phil was married when she first met him. Besides, Ruth is longing to have some time alone with Kate.

  Shona goes off in high spirits, wearing white jeans and rope-soled sandals that don’t look ideal for rough terrain. Kate immediately settles down happily with her felt tips and draws a succession of pictures of Italy. ‘It’s a fresco,’ she says. ‘Cathbad told me about them.’ Ruth watches her daughter, lying on the floor in a circle of sunshine (the way Flint does at home), absorbed in her work. She loves reading and drawing and hasn’t had enough time to do either this holiday; Louis is always interrupting or breaking something. Still, the two have got on very well, considering.

  Ruth should phone her father; she should get out one of her archaeology books and start preparing for the new term; she should look up periosteal infections in bones. But, instead, she sits in Angelo’s uncomfortable leather chair, watching Kate. The sun is streaming in from the balcony, she can hear voices from the fields below, the whine of a cultivator. Ruth’s eyes start to close.

  She’s woken by the intercom buzzing. Who can it be? Shona, coming back for something she’s forgotten? Angelo? She presses the speaker. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Galloway,’ says an unknown voice. ‘This is Samir Ahmadi.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Ruth. ‘You’d better come up.’

  The man on the doorstep doesn’t resemble the furtive figure seen lurking on the edges of the cultural association dinner. Samir is now smartly dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers, and his hair is held back by the sort of hairband beloved by footballers. He’s also younger than she first thought, late thirties at the most. He is carrying a bunch of carnations, which he presents to her with a slight bow.

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Ruth. ‘But why?’

  ‘Commissario Valenti said you believed that I did not kill Don Tomaso. He said that you helped prove my story.’

  ‘That was Nelson, really,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s a policeman back in England and he spoke to Commissario Valenti. And it was Angelo, Angelo Morelli, who was first convinced you were innocent.’

  ‘I know Signor Morelli,’ says Samir. ‘He is a good man. I must thank him. And his mother, too, she often brings me food and clothes.’

  ‘Would you like a cold drink?’ says Ruth. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Just tap water, please.’

  Ruth leads the way into the kitchen. Samir sits at the table and Ruth runs the water to get rid of the sulphuric taste. While Ruth’s back is turned, Kate wanders in and starts showing Samir her pictures. She is sometimes like this, reserved with well-meaning people like teachers and elderly relatives, outgoing with complete strangers.

  ‘This one is the church,’ she is saying. ‘It’s got dead people in it.’

  ‘You are an artist,’ says Samir. ‘These are very fine.’

  ‘I want to be an actress,’ says Kate, getting comfortable on the chair opposite.

  ‘Kate,’ says Ruth, ‘why don’t you go and watch a DVD? You know how to turn it on. You can take these grapes with you.’ She puts some grapes in a bowl and holds them out in a way that she hopes isn’t too obviously placatory.

  Kate takes the bowl and leaves the room very slowly.

  ‘You have a beautiful and clever daughter,’ says Samir.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I left two daughters in Syria,’ says Samir. ‘I hope I will see them again.’ And, without warning, his eyes fill with tears.

  Ruth turns off the tap and pours Samir a glass of wine. While drinking it and eating the rest of the grapes, he tells his story. He was a journalist in Syria, reporting on economics and on the human rights struggles in the south of the country. It wasn’t long before he fell foul of President Assad’s forces and, after reporting on the Damascus protests in 2011, Samir realised he was being followed by the secret police. He knew that he had to flee the country, and managed to get in touch with an underground movement that smuggled refugees into Jordan. He left in 2012, after arranging for his wife and ch
ildren to follow him. That was the last he heard of them for nearly three years until, last year, he received a message that his family had sailed from Libya to Italy. Samir travelled through Jordan and Egypt to Libya, where he managed to get on a boat bound for Sicily. ‘The crossing was hell,’ he says, ‘hours clinging to the sides of this little fishing boat in the baking sun, no food or drink, hundreds of us, men, women and children. Thank God the Italian coastguard saw us and saved us.’ In Sicily he heard that his family had gone north, to Rome, but there the trail went cold. None of the refugee charities in Rome had heard of his family. ‘I fear they are dead,’ he says, ‘drowned in the Mediterranean, the sea of souls.’

  ‘How did you end up in Castello degli Angeli?’ says Ruth.

  ‘I got in touch with a Catholic charity in Rome,’ he says. ‘Pope Francis, he really cares for refugees and his charities are very good. Catholics are a minority in Syria, though we are one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. Did not Christ appear to St Paul on the way to Damascus?’

  ‘That’s what he said,’ says Ruth, who is no fan of St Paul. ‘Are Catholics persecuted in Syria?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Samir. ‘We are in constant danger from jihadi extremists. In areas under jihadi control, Catholics have been ordered to convert to Islam or pay jizya – a heavy tax – or face death. Thousands of Catholics have been forced from their homes. Catholic clerics have been killed and, in Hasaka, hundreds of Catholics were kidnapped by the militia. It was another reason why we had to leave. I contacted a Catholic group because I thought they might have heard of my family. They had no news but they sent me to Don Tomaso. He found me a place to live and looked after me. My faith was all I had left.’ He bows his head.

  ‘So Don Tomaso helped you,’ says Ruth.

  ‘Yes,’ says Samir, ‘and every day, at around five, I’d go to the church for communion. It was all I lived for. That, and the possibility of hearing news of my family. I went into the church on Tuesday, took communion and prayed for a while. I left Don Tomaso praying at the altar steps. I didn’t kill him, I promise you.’

  ‘I believe you,’ says Ruth.