‘Thanks,’ said Sandro. ‘That’s kind.’ He held the boy’s gaze until, uneasily, he turned and hurried away.
‘I’ll take her back to the Loggiata this evening,’ said Giuli, ‘and then you can talk. She’s tougher than she looks.’ She watched him, waiting. ‘So?’ she said. ‘The connection? Between the Guardia and Anna’s missing guy?’
‘All right,’ said Sandro, ‘all right.’
Suddenly he felt impatient with himself, letting all this get to him, the heat, the guilt, the shame. It came to him that he couldn’t go on like this, apologizing for himself, telling himself how low he’d sunk. There had to be a way of being a private detective that he could live with. He set his hands flat on the table.
‘Josef didn’t choose Claudio Brunello’s name at random,’ Sandro said. ‘His real name – well. He has a connection with that bank, and I think if we find out how Brunello died we might be an awful lot closer to finding Josef.’
‘Fine,’ said Giuli warily. ‘Agreed. And if the bank’s being investigated – fine.’ She sat back with arms folded. She knew he hadn’t told her what he knew yet.
Sandro rubbed the back of his neck, his thoughts returning at last to Pietro. They were in it together now, like it or not. He should never have put his old partner in that situation.
It must have been a million to one, Sandro had thought when Pietro said it, what were the odds? ‘I think we’ve got a DNA sample that matches the blood,’ he’d said. Sandro had almost heard him shifting from foot to foot, his unease palpable. ‘Not admissible in court, not officially held – well, you know the deal. They were swabbing a gypsy encampment for DNA a few years ago, just north of Rome.’
They. Sandro could have asked which force they were talking about, but he knew Pietro might clam up. And Carabinieri or Polizia dello Stato, did it matter which? It could even have been some agency in between, some covert operation. The samples would certainly have been obtained under dubious circumstances and should have been destroyed.
They could have had a discussion about it, he and Pietro, if they weren’t both now implicated. The gypsy populations were a significant pain in the backside, but you couldn’t just take their prints for nothing. Because what would be next? Concentration camps and forced sterilization?
Sandro knew they were mostly good guys, Pietro and the rest. Sandro himself, when he’d been a serving officer.
‘Pietro called,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult for him, you know? To tell me stuff. There’s this new guy—’ He stopped.
Giuli just nodded, took a sip of her water. ‘I guess,’ she said, waiting for him to go on.
Sandro sighed. ‘He told me that some of the blood Brunello was soaked in wasn’t his own.’
‘Blood,’ repeated Giuli blankly.
She did look pale; Sandro leaned across to her and took her damp, warm hand. ‘And they’ve found a DNA match.’
‘He’s got a criminal record?’ She looked shaken. ‘Her fiancé?’
‘The blood belonged to someone called Josef Cynaricz who was living in a gyspy camp north of Rome a couple of years ago,’ he said. ‘Eastern European, sounds like, somewhere along the line.’
‘Josef,’ she said slowly. ‘Doesn’t mean – doesn’t have to be him.’
Slowly Sandro shook his head. They both knew. ‘I think it’s him,’ said Sandro carefully.
‘But how did they have his – what did they have? Prints? DNA – how did they know then? If he isn’t a criminal?’ Giuli, straight to the point, looked down at Sandro’s hand holding hers. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, and he took his hand away.
‘Just the usual,’ Pietro had said evasively when Sandro had asked more or less the same question, ‘a bit of panhandling,’ and then, ‘No, nothing proven. No outcome, just some routine evidence-gathering.’ He hadn’t been able to say much more. ‘That’s it, honestly,’ he’d said, and Sandro had believed him. ‘There’s another case come in, I’ve got to get down south of the river.’
And Sandro hadn’t been able to help himself. ‘South?’
‘Beyond Bellosguardo, that hill. Fatal mugging, looks like, possible attempted carjack. Fancy car. Got to go.’ And had hung up hurriedly.
Now Giuli was still looking at him. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do the police have anything on him, this Josef?’
‘No,’ said Sandro sheepishly. ‘Not as far as I know. Just – a fluke they held on to the DNA.’
‘Mistaken identity.’ Giuli eyed him. ‘Coincidence.’ Her arms remained tightly folded across her body.
‘The DNA record will be destroyed,’ said Sandro. ‘Eventually. It can’t be used in court. And in the meantime, it’s helped us.’
‘How much, though?’ said Giuli, relaxing just a little, leaning forward. ‘Can it tell us where he is now?’
‘It’s a name,’ said Pietro. ‘There’s a family somewhere. There might be a mugshot, a decent photo somewhere on record; he might even be legal. An address.’
Giuli regarded him with deep scepticism. ‘Legal? A Roma? And what are the odds that family’s long-gone from whatever filthy camp your guys had them cooped up in?’
‘Not my guys,’ said Sandro, putting up some resistance. He set his jaw. ‘All right, so it doesn’t get us much further. But we have a name.’
The sun was now low on the horizon, the sky glowing apricot through the arches of the Ponte Vecchio. It would soon be sinking, out in the silver sea off Viareggio. Where was he hiding, this Josef Cynaricz, whose blood had been on Brunello’s dead body, and from whom or from what was he hiding?
And then he felt it, the first pulse of adrenaline, as unmistakable as love. They were on to him, at last. They had a name, a profile.
‘I know she’s your friend,’ he said. ‘I know. He’s alive. He’s alive, and Brunello’s dead; that’s not necessarily good news, is it? Just think about it. It might be better for her if – if he doesn’t come back. That might turn out to be our job, to keep him away from her.’
‘To turn him in?’ said Giuli, fierce but not pulling away. Sandro could feel the waiter’s eyes on them, and let go. ‘Are you going to tell Pietro that he’s been seen? That he’s alive? And scared?’
‘His blood was on Brunello’s body,’ he said slowly. Was he going to tell Pietro? Whose side was he on, exactly?
‘She said that,’ said Giuli, half turning her head away from him to hide her expression.
‘Who said what?’ said Sandro, his head thick with it all. Like a swarm of bees, like a caffeine hangover, too much adrenaline combined with too much new information.
‘The Russian girl,’ Giuli spoke slowly. ‘When she said Anna was better off without him – she said he had a dirty job.’
‘Did she say what kind?’ He didn’t ask how the Russian girl knew: girls like that, living on the margins, they knew more than most about dirty jobs.
Giuli shook her head.
‘The kind that involves violence? Intimidation?’
Sandro was beginning to get that sick feeling in his stomach, the churning that arrived at the stage in any case when you began to wonder about how much you’d been fooling yourself. He really had begun to believe in Anna’s version of her guy: he’d convinced himself she’d know if he was – capable of doing what had been done to Claudio Brunello. But he’d seen sentimental drug dealers showing around pictures of their kids, known hitmen who were kind to animals, men whose wives knew nothing – or chose to know nothing – about what they did. But why would he have chosen Anna, if he was that kind of guy?
It could be as simple as the fact that she was easy to fool. He could feel Giuli’s eyes on him, taking in his expression. Then she looked past him.
‘Does this place have a bathroom?’
She sounded tired. Sandro looked around helplessly. The bar was no more than a wooden counter made out of wine boxes. Bathroom?
‘Of course it doesn’t,’ Giuli answered for him. ‘Let’s go home, shall we?’
‘OK,’ he said. Giuli needed
a bathroom, and he needed Luisa.
But when they got there, the flat was dark, and neither Luisa nor Anna was there.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘SHE SAID WHAT?’
‘Marisa asked me if I’d come out to her apartment,’ said Roxana. ‘To – um, pay my respects. To Irene Brunello.’ She was almost enjoying Val’s disbelief.
‘It’s on my way home,’ she went on, shrugging. ‘I don’t mind.’ Pursed her lips, thinking. ‘It’s got to be tough,’ she said. ‘Having her there.’
She got out her mobile. She’d called Ma to tell her she’d be a bit late home. Told her not to worry, for the umpteenth time: the handyman would keep her company, fixing the gate. Infuriatingly, Ma had reacted almost with amusement, as if it was all Roxana’s invention, her panic attack.
‘Oh, you enjoy yourself, dear,’ she’d said. Enjoy myself?
The mobile was almost out of battery. Roxana reached up into the overhead cupboard where she kept a charger.
They were in the tiny bright kitchenette at the back of the bank, and no one could hear them, but Val and Roxana were whispering anyway. It was half an hour from closing time and the Guardia and Giorgio Viola had just left for the day. They often came here in the dosing hours of a working day when there were no customers. Each took it in turns to take a breather from the dusty gloom of the bank, a shot of natural light. It had been easier when there was no Marisa, mind.
Val shook his head, watching her fiddle to get the charger into the phone. Gently he took it from her and with a single deft movement plugged it in. ‘Better not let Madam catch you,’ he said, sliding it out of sight behind the coffee machine. ‘That’s company electricity you’re consuming.’
She watched him, thinking about Irene Brunello and Marisa. ‘It’s just – it’s not like Marisa. I mean, it almost counts as asking for help, doesn’t it?’ Val pulled a long face. ‘With her. With Signora Brunello.’ Still shaking his head slowly, chastened. It was almost endearing to see him strain to understand.
He was right: it wasn’t like Marisa. She’d called Roxana into her office, about halfway through the afternoon. Roxana had thought it would be to do with the private detective – her private detective, was how she thought of him, Sandro Cellini. But Marisa hadn’t mentioned him.
Nothing to stop me calling him. The thought had barely had time to settle, then Marisa had said, ‘It’s Irene.’
The conversation had been stilted and odd, and Marisa had not been herself: stumbling, hesitant, awkward. Had it been something the private detective had said? Or was it the weirdness of the situation generally? Marisa having to be a shoulder for anyone to cry on was crazy.
‘I – um – well, I know you don’t know her. But I’m at my wits’ end, really.’ Marisa hadn’t seemed able to hold eye contact. ‘I don’t know when she’s planning to go, you see. Last night – well. The – the crying was awful. I didn’t know whether to go in.’
Roxana had just stood there, hands clasped tight, not even daring to sit down. Not knowing what to say.
‘I’ve got to get home before too late,’ she had begun, hedging. ‘My mother’s – well, there’s someone coming round. There was – some damage to our fence, a man’s coming to fix it.’
Marisa had made a gesture, almost impatient. ‘Your mother,’ she had said, irritably. Then frowned. ‘Did you say there was an intruder?’
‘Not exactly,’ Roxana had said, hesitating, finding herself reluctant to give out any more detail. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter, he’s not coming till seven-thirty or something.’
‘Anyway,’ Marisa had said. ‘She can’t stay forever, can she?’
Roxana had looked at her blankly. ‘Ma?’ she had said.
‘No,’ Marisa had replied, clicking her tongue. ‘Irene Brunello.’
Roxana had contemplated Marisa’s expression, and pitied Claudio Brunello’s widow even more than she had when she heard the news. ‘She’ll have to go home and tell her children some time,’ she had ventured, faltering at the thought.
And then Marisa’s head had swivelled, and for a second her eyes had met Roxana’s. ‘Yes,’ she had said. ‘That’s it, she will, won’t she?’
There was guilt somewhere deep down in Marisa, Roxana could have sworn there was, but a ferocious instinct for self-preservation had been wrestling it into silence. ‘She did say that’s why she couldn’t face going back. Something about holidays, not wanting to ruin the holidays.’
‘No.’
Looking into Marisa’s face, Roxana had seen she was not interested in thinking about Claudio Brunello’s children; it would be too complicated or too unpleasant, or too pointless, that was what she’d been telling herself.
‘I’ll come,’ she had said quietly. ‘I’d like to give her my – my best wishes, anyway. He was a – a nice man. A good guy.’ And Marisa’s eyes had swivelled away.
Now in the little back room with Val, there was a silence. Roxana frowned and rubbed at the circular mark left by a coffee cup. How many afternoons had she come in here, desperate for a quick shot of caffeine to get her to the end of the day?
‘What’s she got to feel guilty about?’ she said, hardly even aware of saying it out loud.
‘What?’ said Val. ‘Who?’
She turned and looked at Val. ‘Marisa. Did she – did she and Claudio have a – have something going on?’
He looked at her levelly. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Roxana and found herself suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to cry quietly somewhere. Poor Claudio. What did it matter, an affair? Poor Claudio, his poor wife. ‘Did she tell you what the private detective came back for?’
Val shook his head.
‘You didn’t ask?’ she said, hearing the unshed tears coming into her voice. ‘Aren’t you even curious?’
‘Roxi,’ said Val, his voice strained. He never called her that – it sounded strange. ‘Listen. Are you all right, really?’ Roxana felt herself stiffen at his concern. ‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘this thing with your mother. This stalker thing.’
‘It was just her imagination,’ Roxana said, a little too sharply. Feeling that tug: other people had someone to share their troubles with. All this worry, about getting old. Was that what Val was offering, a shoulder to cry on?
Then they heard her call, from beyond the door. Marisa: impatient, querulous, that You’d better not make me have to come and find you note in her voice.
‘You’re feeling sorry for her, aren’t you?’ Val said.
‘Am I?’
‘You’re too soft, Roxi.’
‘She’s a ballbreaker, I know,’ Roxana began.
‘Oh, yeah, and the rest,’ Val sounded almost bored. ‘Ball-breaker, marriage wrecker. You know she was supposed to have gone straight to the yacht with Paolo after work, Thursday? Well, let me tell you, she was still in the city on Friday evening. Still here because I saw her on the doorstep of Claudio’s building in Campo di Marte, talking into the intercom. I saw the door open, and she went in.’
‘Did she see you? You were on the bike?’ The shiny red Triumph: Val was hardly inconspicuous.
‘Not sure.’ He shrugged. ‘She might have done.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
Valentino looked uneasy. ‘Well – not exactly,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not like she—’ He stopped, looking genuinely puzzled. ‘I didn’t want to get her into trouble. I mean, that’s serious trouble, right? Lying to the police? Telling you – that’s not the same. Because’s she’s behaving like such a bitch.’
Roxana returned his uncertain smile. Who knew what was the right thing to do?
‘I guess they’ll find out, in the end,’ she said slowly.
‘Both of you,’ called Marisa, imperious, and Roxana practically ran out of the room. Val followed, sauntering.
They shuffled into Marisa’s office like schoolchildren. Erase it from your mind, Roxana told herself. It’s gossip. She didn’t even look at V
al.
Marisa looked pale, but calm, setting things straight on her desk, sliding papers into her briefcase. Papers the Guardia might have wanted to see, wondered Roxana? Marisa’s expression challenged her to say anything.
She set the briefcase on the floor. ‘They’re – ah – the Guardia have asked that we should temporarily suspend business,’ she said, her voice steady. ‘They’ve been called to another case tomorrow and they think – they want things left as they are. It’s temporary. Perhaps only twenty-four, forty-eight hours.’
Val was pale under his tan, and staring. ‘What about the customers?’ he said.
‘The other branches will be unaffected.’ She fiddled with a pen.
No one said anything. It was hardly worth pointing out that the Banca di Toscana Provinciale had now, with the temporary closure of the Via dei Saponai branch, contracted by one-sixth.
There was a folded piece of paper on the desk and Marisa picked it up, more as a distraction than anything else, Roxana would have said, to avoid meeting their shocked looks. Marisa unfolded it and stared down at it, unfocused, and without thinking Roxana followed her gaze. From upside down, it seemed to be a photographic image of poor quality, a blow-up of the head and shoulders of two figures. Roxana tilted her head to get a better look and as she did so Marisa crumpled the page into a ball and swivelled on her chair to locate her wastepaper bin.
Out of the corner of her eye Roxana felt Val turn his head, questioning, towards her.
‘Hold on,’ she said to Marisa, putting out a hand to stop her. ‘Hold on. What’s that? Who was that?’
Marisa looked at the ball of paper as if it was nothing to do with her.
‘In the picture?’ Roxana persisted. ‘Who was it?’
‘That private detective,’ said Marisa, with an angry edge to her voice. ‘And his bloody questions. Why should we help him now?’
‘Can I see?’ Roxana held out her hand, palm open. Marisa glanced at it, and Roxana could see she was considering refusal. She placed the ball of paper in Roxana’s open palm and sighed.
Dead Season Page 23
