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.’
‘But he doesn’t have his phone,’ Sandro had said. ‘He asked Liliana – oh, never mind. He didn’t send that message.’
‘She’s not there, anyway,’ Giuli had said. ‘I banged and banged. No one’s there.’
The sky was black now. From up the hill Sandro could hear a rushing, a pattering. He could have asked Marisa Goldman for a lift. Damn, why hadn’t he? Because he couldn’t stand another minute of her, that’s why. He could see the rain coming, a sheet of it moving down the hillside. And then the taxi was there, creeping under the rain, and he put out his hand.
‘You know the old Carnevale?’ he said. ‘Take me there.’
*
The old woman came back in, her currant eyes glittering with malice and satisfaction. She took off her coat: Dasha saw sweat patches under the arms. Took off her scarf and edged Dasha out from behind the reception desk. ‘You go and clean,’ she said with hostility. ‘What are you good for, anyway? Get to the rooms.’
Dasha stood there a long moment, feeling her youth against the woman’s age, hating her long and hard. ‘In a bit,’ she said at last, and saw Serafina’s eyes narrow. ‘Breath of fresh air first.’ And shaking her cigarette packet in her employer’s face, she turned to saunter towards the lift.
The wide, dim entrance hall was cool. Once down there, Dasha felt no urge to get outside, into the heat. She lit her cigarette, drew in the smoke. She wanted to escape; she wanted to kill Serafina Capponi. But Anna might need her. Anna.
And besides, where could she go? Inhaling, she heard something, held her breath until it came again. A tiny scratching at the main door. She stepped towards it, right up to the wide arched door with its smaller door inset, turned her ear towards the sound. Someone was trying to get in. She pulled it open sharply, and he fell inwards.
Stepping back, Dasha regarded him on the floor in the light that fell through the door before it swung shut again. Jesus.
Josef scrambled to his feet, putting out his hands to her: she jumped back, arms up, cigarette still in one hand. ‘No,’ she said sharply. In the gloom the bruising was less visible, but she couldn’t ignore it. His throat dark and mottled, one side of his face turning yellow and scabbed. He stank.
‘Please.’ He was almost sobbing. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go any more. I need to see her. I need to know she’s all right.’ Then he flung himself at Dasha and wept, hauling at her while she stood stiff as a board. She pushed him off, took a drag, then threw the cigarette down.
‘You imbecile,’ she said, arms crossed. ‘You text her to get her to meet you, then you come here instead? You think in this heat, in her condition, she should be wandering all over town?’
And he stared at her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘What? No.’ Shook his head slowly. ‘He took it. My
telefonino
. He took it.’
Then put both hands to the sides of his head as if to crush his own skull.
‘Where?’ he said. ‘Where has she gone?’
*
‘The girl,’ Giuli had said. ‘I’m worried about Anna. I think she’s – she could be in trouble. That baby.’
‘Stay calm,’ Luisa had said. ‘As soon as I can come, I’ll be there. Stay calm. We’ll find her.’
Leaning over the hot stone of the parapet and looking down into the river, staring, trying to get some air after the Carnevale’s fetid alley, trying to think straight, Giuli heard the rain come, sweeping down the length of the river. Below her, the creeper-covered awning of the rowing club shivered like an animal in the sudden wind, and the narrow boats moored along the bank clattered against each other. A few big drops, the wind that blinded her and pulled at her hair, flattening the ripples on the water’s surface, then suddenly it was roaring in her ears, a miniature tornado that swept along the embankment and continued past. She turned to watch it go, rubbing her eyes: it was real, she saw the twisting wind move up the side of a building, catch a satellite dish and gleefully wrench it from its moorings. The crash of shutters.
It wasn’t him. That was what Sandro had said. It wasn’t Josef who’d texted her; it was whoever had Josef’s phone. Catch a rabbit to catch a fox: he’d got Anna. Anna the little rabbit, someone had her, the lure to catch Josef, a little rabbit panting in a snare. How could he be sure that Josef would find out? He must be nuts, whoever he was. Or perhaps he knew Josef better than the rest of them.
Think.
And then the rain came in earnest, rushing at her in the wake of the wind, hitting her side on, then it was overhead and coming straight down, and in a second Giuli was drenched. She ran, away from the river, back towards the Carnevale.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-N
INE
I
N THE DARK
R
OXANA
thought she might be sick. Everything in her strained to keep it at bay. She tried not to breathe through her nose, but she couldn’t put her hand to her mouth for fear of alerting Valentino.
He was holding her hand painfully tight and tugging her now, away from the door.
‘In here,’ he said.
There was some kind of corridor ahead of them, dark as a cellar. She couldn’t stop herself resisting, looking back over her shoulder to the feeble grey light that filtered around the door. Left on the latch: she could just bolt, if his hand wasn’t so tight around hers. She felt choked, something big in her throat at the thought of where he might take her. Anything but further in; she could almost feel the labyrinth of rooms spread around her, a web that might catch her and hold her. She took a step, then another.
They must be somewhere behind the auditorium, deep inside the building. There were no windows.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ said Val, taking something out of his pocket and looking down at it. Roxana realized he was talking to himself. ‘Give it an hour.’
‘Val,’ she said, hating the wheedling sound in her voice, trying to ingratiate herself. Pretend this was normal.
‘Pregnant, though,’ he said, talking to himself. She saw his mouth turn down in an expression of distaste. ‘Messy. We can just shut her in here, keep her quiet. Yes.’
Roxana didn’t know what he meant: didn’t want to know. That chemical smell seemed to ooze from his pores as Valentino came closer to her in the confined space. His breathing was shallow. It must be drugs: why was she so naive? Why hadn’t she known? Because she’d allowed herself to think, Well, Val’s not so bad. He’s just a boy, he’s just a spoiled boy, he could be good at heart. Bantering with his friends in the bar, off rowing after work.
He hadn’t gone rowing, though, had he? After work on Saturday, he hadn’t gone rowing. Waving to her in his singlet, heading this way. She had turned away but then turned back: she’d watched him go towards the river but never get there because he had turned down the alley beside the Carnevale instead. And on Friday night he said he’d passed Marisa outside Claudio’s house: on the way home? Or on the way back into the city?
Overhead there was a strange rushing sound she couldn’t identify, a clatter far above them, and a wind that seemed to make its way inside, a cool swirl of air brushing Roxana’s ankles, a rustling ahead of them as it moved through the building.
‘Was it true?’ she said out loud. ‘About Marisa and Claudio?’
‘She shagged him a few years back,’ he said peremptorily. ‘Scheming bitch.’
‘But you saw her on his doorstep?’
‘I saw her. Wanting her dues. She’s been dumped, and while she’s looking around for the next meal ticket she thought she might touch him for a payment. I know women. Leeching bloody women. Bleed you dry.’
‘Where were you going?’ asked Roxana. ‘Last Friday night?’
Why was she asking? Because she wanted to know? To keep him talking? It occurred to her she would probably never get to tell anyone.
Ma. I’ve done something stupid
.
‘Going?’ Again that look, as if he didn’t recognize her. Would that make it easier for him? Then he smiled, wide as a shark. ‘Friday night? I was coming here to meet Galeotti, give him his commission, tell him the deal. Of course. I moved the money – no more than borrowing it, really, in Claudio’s name, then transfer it – via another account, of course, I’m not stupid – over to the Carnevale and the sale can go through. Easy enough to write the letter saying the property was no longer encumbered, copy it to them, just to speed it all up. Galeotti thought it was genius.’
I bet he did, thought Roxana.
‘Last piece of the jigsaw, sale goes through Monday.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘Fucking Josef,’ he said, and as he tilted his head back she saw him muse, coldly. ‘Fucking thieving little gypsy scum. Hiding in his little hole, listening to every word.’
‘The money,’ whispered Roxana, knowing she should just keep quiet. Val turned his head and regarded her. ‘You stole that money. To pay off what had been borrowed against the business. You stole it in Claudio’s name.’
Who had authorized that first loan, taken out a year ago? When old Mrs Martelli had had her heart attack?
‘The old cow,’ he said. ‘Nagging at me, where had the money gone, she’d let me take out the loan against the business and I’d been supposed to invest it for her, I’d told her I knew my stuff. Then when she had her heart attack I thought, well, it’ll be mine soon enough anyway, who’s going to know? I started spending. I don’t know how you can live on what they pay at the bank.’ His lip curled a little. ‘You don’t really have a life, though, do you?’
‘When they made the offer on the cinema you had to come up with the money, pay off the loan.’ Roxana’s voice came out in a whisper. ‘Thought about selling the bike back then but it wouldn’t have been enough. Three thousand, the thieving bastards paid me for it.’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘It would have been paid back, when the sale went through, Tyrrhenian Properties’ payment to me would’ve easily covered it. I thought my luck was in when he left early Friday, wrote the letter, made the preliminary transfer, all while you were staring out the window in the kitchen. We shut up shop and I went off to close the deal.’
Only you left Claudio’s computer switched on, thought Roxana.
He sighed, self-pityingly. ‘I’d have got all the money back where it should have been before Claudio was back from holiday – if only that little gyspy snitch had kept his mouth shut. Claudio thinks I’m so dumb: he’s the dumb one. Was. No grasp of technology, the older generation.’ Roxana just stared.