Luisa inclined her head. ‘Not at all,’ she said, truthfully.
‘I remember your mother,’ the old woman said.
‘Yes,’ said Luisa, detecting prevarication. ‘Where’s Anna?’
Serafina Capponi shrugged obstinately, drawing her shrunken shoulders up to her neck like an old tortoise. ‘She was a good girl. I had to protect her from that man. It’s not the money.’
‘What money?’
‘Her parents left her their money – well, adoptive parents, of course she had no real parents. She had them, and now she has me.’
Luisa’s head was hurting with the low glare of the light from outside. ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’
‘He must have been after the money. It was my duty to protect her. He worked in that filthy place.’
The mouth turned down, a waterfall of grimy wrinkles. Capponi’s husband would have been one of the Carnevale’s most loyal customers, in its heyday. So what? All Luisa’s dislike of the place had suddenly fallen away; it was nothing more than a shabby little backstreet cinema. There was more at stake than that. ‘He worked for that bitch. That old bitch.’
And then Luisa leaned forward: she didn’t know if it was more than thirty years with Sandro but something had fine-tuned her to notice such things. That note of venom, that new piece of information. He worked for...
‘Who?’ she spoke softly, hardly wanting to alert the woman.
Serafina Capponi’s lip twitched, though Luisa didn’t know if the contempt was for her, or someone else.
‘The old bitch, Margherita Martelli. A dirty business, they tried to hide it, of course they did. Just used her initials for the name of the company, so I believe.’
Luisa stared at her. ‘The edicolaia?’
She was astonished by the sheer, poisonous fluency of the woman who’d sat mumbling at the reception desk in her crumbling, inestimably valuable hotel. Serafina Capponi might be decrepit on the outside, but she’d been all there in the head, all along. It was why you should always treat the elderly with respect, was Luisa’s fleeting thought, though she felt something more ambiguous than respect for the old witch in front of her.
‘Why did you come here, Signora?’ she asked quietly, wanting to separate truth from malice. ‘Why do you come to me, now? Are you worried about Anna?’
Capponi’s chin set, resentful at the directness of the question, and Luisa sensed that like so many of her kind – counting their money, watching their assets decay, fretful over the future and nursing hatreds – Serafina Capponi’s conscience was a dusty, tangled, old spider’s web of contradictions.
‘You came for her, didn’t you? With that husband of yours, that policeman. So he can just find her, if he’s a policeman. That idiot Russian told me she let her go. To him – that place. She must be found, she must be brought back.’
‘A private detective now,’ said Luisa quietly, but Serafina Capponi waved her away impatiently.
Luisa saw that her fondness – if you could call it that – for Anna would be something like her feelings for her ruined and beautiful palazzo: an asset that needed protecting, that threatened to get away from her.
Capponi leaned forwards and whispered, ‘And while your husband is about it, he can make sure everyone knows that Margherita Martelli’s money comes from that dirty cinema. She thinks she can just pocket the cash and come out of it clean?’
So that was why the old woman was here: the need to claw back the only thing that represented a future, Anna and her child, and the need to exact revenge on an old enemy at the same time, for the crime of realizing her assets while Capponi sat and watched hers crumble.
‘She could keep it quiet, she could hide her dirty business, but we know. Those of us who’ve known her since she was a grasping little kid.’ She drew herself up. ‘She can’t even see they are cheating her, all of them, she will never see the real money. Too senile, too soft. The estate agent. Cheating her.’ She pronounced it with contempt. ‘And that boy.’
What boy? Anna’s fiancé?
‘She sold it,’ said Luisa. ‘It’s been sold, hasn’t it? The cinema?’
Serafina Capponi’s eyes filmed over, and for an instant Luisa wondered whether she wasn’t gaga after all, if this wasn’t just addled, toxic ramblings, until she saw that crafty glint. All an act.
‘I don’t know,’ said the woman carefully, undoing the top button of her gabardine.
‘You do,’ said Luisa, feeling the ache in her knees and ignoring it.
‘She’s got connections,’ said Serafina Capponi. ‘Old Margerita Martelli has family, you see.’
And glimpsing triumph in the old woman’s eyes, Luisa wondered at the decades of hatred, wondered what ancient feud – a childhood game? A husband led astray? – had provoked this unburdening. She’d waited all this time.
‘Family where?’
The hands were in the lap, the narrow shoulders raised defiantly in an attitude of moral superiority.
‘She needs him, you see. She’s not all there any more, not since that heart attack last year. He deals with everything for her. In the bank.’
‘In the bank.’
‘We know, you see. The young ones, they think they can be invisible, they think there are ways of keeping things from us, with their mobile phones and their computers. But we know.’
‘She has family in the bank?’
And Serafina Capponi’s head turned, her monkey eyes fixing on Luisa.
‘Claudio Brunello was related to her? Margherita Martelli owned the Carnevale and Claudio Brunello managed it for her?’
The woman clicked her tongue in disgust. ‘Not him,’ she said impatiently, ‘not him. The other one, of course. That boy.’
*
Ma, thought Roxana as she felt his arm close around her shoulder. Ma, I think I’ve done something stupid.
She’d had that same thought submitting to her first kiss. Was that why she’d never had a proper boyfriend, not one she’d trusted?
In the alley he was fumbling with the lock now, turning his face to smile at her, one hand still holding tight to hers. Roxana felt only anxiety. Was it that there was something wrong with her? Physical contact a problem?
But there were so many things wrong. This alley, to begin with.
Ma, I think I’ve done something stupid.
In the bank, Roxana had looked up from the computer screen to Val’s face as he appeared in the door, then back at the screen, trying to make sense of it. He’d beamed at her, his face alive with excitement, and bemused, she’d smiled back.
‘How did I know you’d be here?’ he’d said, smiling, and she was confused. Holding out his hand to her. He hadn’t been wearing the bike helmet, or the leathers, but grown-up clothes. A fine striped shirt, a sports jacket, loafers. Maybe he really had sold the bike, then, just as Marisa said.
Now he turned to her in triumph as the door opened in the alley and a cavernous, cool gust of air billowed from the dark interior of the cinema. ‘After you,’ he said, and manoeuvred her in front of him. She could feel his arm, his arm strong from rowing, skiing with his wealthy friends, brooking no resistance. The door closed behind them.
How did he know she’d be there? He couldn’t have known.
He’d come to where she sat at Claudio’s desk, from the little kitchen. Had he known she’d left her phone behind? Impossible. So what had he been looking for in there?
‘Listen,’ she’d said urgently, ‘there’s something wrong here. Did you know old Mrs Martelli owned that place? The Carnevale. She must have been Josef’s employer.’
Something had flickered across his face. ‘Know?’ he’d said. ‘Of course I knew. She’s my mother’s cousin. Second cousin, actually.’ He had tapped the side of his nose. ‘Of course,’ he’d gone on, ‘it’s not something they talk about. Not a particularly pretty business.’
Roxana had glanced down at the screen, aware of his hand still held out to her. ‘They borrowed money,’ she’d said. ‘She
borrowed money against the Carnevale last year. The letter – this letter says it was discharged on Friday. It was paid back on Friday.’ She had looked up.
Valentino’s eyes had still been bright, trusting, wide. ‘Come on,’ he’d said, almost laughing now. ‘I’ve found out all about it. I’ll show you.’ Like a boy, like the friend she hadn’t had since Maria Grazia left, actually not really since scuola superiore. And she’d got to her feet and taken his hand.
‘Hold on,’ she’d said, almost laughing herself, ‘I came here for my phone. Let me get my bag.’ He’d bowed, a little impatiently. She’d got the bag.
Ma.
On the street they’d passed a woman going the other way. A pale, sharp-chinned and skinny girl-woman with spiky reddish hair who gave them a fierce look. Did Roxana know her? From the neighbourhood, for sure. There’d been something about that blazing look she’d given them, like, how dare they? And she had pushed past, hurrying somewhere. Looking for someone. That had been when she’d started to get anxious herself, that was when the weight of Val’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her in against him, had started to get uncomfortable.
‘So, what have you found out?’ she’d said as they locked up the bank behind them, Val giving the Guardia’s pasted sign a contemptuous glance. ‘Can’t you tell me?’
‘Surprise,’ he’d replied, with that unwavering smile.
But now, as he closed the door behind them in the cinema and they were in the clammy dark, she didn’t feel surprised. She felt a kind of awful certainty. He turned to face her, her back to the door. She could smell his aftershave, and knew it was expensive.
‘Val,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know.’ His voice was soft: Roxana wanted to put her hands to her ears. She struggled to stay steady, feeling herself unbalanced by his proximity.
‘Where are we?’ she said, trying to sound normal. ‘Where have we come in?’
And then abruptly he moved back from her, pushing his back to the door. ‘You want to see?’ he said. ‘We’re round the back: this passage leads to the private rooms. Not much use for them these days, business hasn’t been any good at all, really. Josef wasn’t even covering what she paid him, showing old stock to five old men a day.’
Instinctively Roxana put a hand to her abdomen, feeling it clench. It was so hot in here suddenly, as though the air had been shut off somewhere.
‘And there’s Josef’s palatial apartments, obviously. Could give you the guided tour.’
‘He’s got a fidanzata,’ she heard herself saying. ‘They’re having a baby.’
Valentino made a soft, disgusted sound. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That bloody fidanzata of his was the cause of all the trouble, really, getting pregnant. Without her he’d have kept his nose out, done what he was told, I could have kept him quiet.’
‘Quiet?’
‘I didn’t even think he knew enough Italian to understand, it was months ago. Galeotti and I discussing business after Tyrrhenian Properties’ first visit, the division of monies, if you see what I mean? A certain price offered, a certain compensation, you know? And old Auntie Margherita none the wiser.’
He thought Josef wasn’t even human, thought Roxana. You could say anything in front of him.
‘He heard us. And when she got pregnant he started dropping hints. All that stuff about needing an apartment. We strung him along.’ Turned his head towards her, but his face was dark. He was sweating, under the aftershave, the strong reek of him overcoming the sweet, expensive scent, an undertow of something else too. ‘So. You want to see?’
He put a hand to the wall and she heard the empty click of a light switch. Nothing happened.
He clicked his tongue. ‘Damn,’ he said carelessly. ‘Forgot about that, no lights. Still. This stuff we can manage in the dark.’
Roxana edged sideways, her hand moving out towards the door, feeling for the handle. ‘What stuff?’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
And Val just tilted his head so she could see he was watching, in the almost dark, where her hand was going: he didn’t move, just watched.
‘You want to leave?’ he said softly. ‘Come on, Roxi. We’re waiting for someone – they’ll be here soon. Once I have his woman, he’ll come.’ He nodded, almost reasonable. ‘However long it takes.’
‘Once you have her? Have who? Who will come?’
Val’s eyes gleamed in the dark, and she knew that whatever plan he’d hatched, it was not a sane one.
‘I sent her the message, you see,’ he said. ‘From his phone, telling her to come here. Someone will tell him.’ He shifted in the dark, evasive. ‘He’s still here only because of her, and that child of his. He’ll find out she’s come here, someone will tell him, and sooner or later he’ll come to me.’ His voice was fervent with lunatic self-belief, or something stronger.
Sooner or later? Roxana knew in that moment that they would never leave, she and Val locked in the dark together forever. He was nuts enough to keep her here for as long as it took.
‘And while we wait – there are things we can do. Don’t you want to see? You do.’
‘See what?’ Roxana clutched the bag to her stomach.
He leaned down until his face was touching hers, as if he was about to kiss her. She didn’t flinch, though his breath was hot and sharp and chemical. Drugs.
‘I know you do. You want to see where it happened.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.
Why all this walking? What had possessed him to set out on foot? Because when you really needed to be somewhere fast, you had to take a damned cab, and when you really needed the cab to arrive in the two minutes they promised, it was nowhere to be seen.
Sandro paced on the corner of the viale, staring this way and that for a white cab, call sign Roma 86. The row of huge umbrella pines was being tossed and flung by the wind overhead. And then the rain began. Huge fat drops to begin with, evaporating almost before they hit the hot tarmac, each one diminishing his chances of the cab arriving on time, or at all.
Sandro could have called Pietro to beg a lift, but Pietro was on his way out to check on Roxana Delfino and her mother. He’d even texted Sandro to say he was on his way over there now; a call had come in from out that way about an intruder, and Pietro wanted to be on the safe side, he was picking up Matteucci and they were off.
Was Gulli the one they should be after? At least he was a nasty piece of work, at least they had him for Galeotti’s murder.
But Sandro was after someone else.
‘He wasn’t there? He wasn’t at the bank after five that night?’ he’d repeated after Marisa Goldman had said it again, insisted. ‘You weren’t there, and Brunello wasn’t there?’ She’d shaken her head, almost smiling, avid.
‘So only Roxana Delfino was there,’ Sandro had said slowly, and in his head he scanned that gloomy bank of cashiers’ workstations, silent and virtually empty.
‘And Valentino, of course.’ And Marisa smiled, polite, bored.
Valentino. Valentino – and then Sandro grasped who she meant. That – that boy? The boy she’d sent looking for Roxana, and Sandro remembered only a whiff of aftershave, an expensive shirt. The photograph of a Triumph motorbike pinned over his workstation. A nervous, shifty expression on his face as he eagerly – too eagerly – left to find Roxana. Boy, how old would he be? Thirty?
He rode a Triumph. There was a lesion on Brunello’s leg. Surely not? A burn from a motorbike exhaust? Only a madman could have got the body of the bank manager on the back of a motorbike. He’d have to be – a madman. Or high on something? Hauled the body pillion as far as the African market, then given up?
And then Luisa had phoned. He’d seen Marisa Goldman watching him like a hawk now, alive again, as he had spoken. Had seen her not quite understand whom he could be talking to, the combination of impatience and fondness and longing in his voice clearly quite alien to her.
And then, Luisa had got the words out. ‘Serafina Capponi at the Loggiata,’ she said. ‘Came and told me, just to stir, perhaps, maybe because she’s really worried and doesn’t know what to do.’
‘Worried?’
‘About the girl.’
And he had heard the dead echo of worry in Luisa’s own voice, something chiming in his memory, something wrong. Concentrate.
‘The woman who owns the Carnevale, an old edicolaia called Margherita Martelli, the cinema’s been in the family for years, the building was theirs before it was a cinema. Anyway, she has a nephew or something, I don’t know. Nephew, grandkid, cousin. A boy working at the bank.’
And it had fallen into place. The boy, Valentino. And even as he had hung up, the phone had rung again, and this time it had been Giuli. She had sounded like she was in a wind machine, and looking out through Marisa’s big, double-glazed windows he had glimpsed the mature trees beyond her rose garden swaying violently.
His mind had been racing. How do we get hold of this kid? This Valentino. Find him. And what Giuli had been saying had taken a while to come through.
‘I’m here, I’m outside the Carnevale and she’s not here, but there’s something wrong. I know there is.’
‘Hold on,’ Sandro had said, ‘hold on.’ He had put a hand over the receiver, seeing Marisa Goldman looking at him resentfully. ‘Is it all right if I have a conversation?’ he had said, suddenly enraged by her. ‘I’ll be gone in just a minute, out of your hair. You have an address for your colleague Valentino, by any chance? A phone number?’
And her mouth set in a hard line, Marisa had turned and stalked away.
‘Giuli,’ Sandro had pleaded. ‘Again. Tell me again.’
‘Josef sent her a text message, finally. Sent Anna a message telling her to come and meet him at the cinema. Dasha saw the message. She told me.’
There had been a tremendous crash of thunder, then: Sandro hadn’t been able to tell whether he was hearing it over his own head, or down the line, or both. Both.
‘Jesus,’ Giuli had said, awed and frightened. ‘That was close.’
Dead Season Page 35
