“Can we see our boy? “ asked Alda in a shaky voice.
“I’m sorry but you can’t see him, except through the glass. I’ll get a nurse to accompany you. He will remain in intensive care. At the moment he is on a respirator. He is in the hands of God.”
“Thank you doctor,” they murmured in unison.
“Go home, you can do nothing here. By all means go and see him, then go home. You need to rest, and in any case I can’t allow you to stay on this ward. Hospital rules. We’ll call you if there is any change in his condition.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Alda her eyes filled with yet more tears.
“Nurse! Take these people through to look at their son, Marco Rossi, in the ICU, then show them the way out.” He shook hands with them and rushed off.
Alda and Gino held onto each other as they followed the nurse to the viewing window. Their son was almost invisible, hidden by the machinery that was breathing for him, and monitoring his vital functions. They both had tears in their eyes.
“I know what I’m going to do,” said Alda firmly. “I’m going to San Giovanni Rotondo to pray to Padre Pio. The doctor said he’s in the hands of God, so there’s nothing else left to do. We’ll go home now, and you must stay there in case the hospital phones. I’ll get Rosaria to take me there.”
Rosaria was Alda’s pious unmarried cousin, who had already been to San Giovanni Rotondo on a pilgrimage. The Vatican was now examining Padre Pio’s case, as his intervention was responsible for at least the two, well-documented, medical miracles required for beatification. For years frowned on by the Church, his stigmata considered to be of hysterical origin, Padre Pio had become a cult figure and thousands of people flocked to San Giovanni Rotondo every year. Many of these pilgrims attributed their recovery, from cancer or other life- threatening medical problems, to him. Now he was receiving official recognition.
The two old people, arm in arm continued to look through the glass at their son. They had had him so late, were they to lose him so soon? Alda felt absolutely ferocious in her desire to make him live. She knew that he would. It was quite simple. All she had to do was make the journey south and pray.
They left the hospital and walked slowly to the little station, the one nearest to the hospital, where they took the two-carriage train that would take them home to Borgo San Cristoforo.
Hilary had got up fairly late again. She had enjoyed the concert the evening before, but hadn’t got to bed until pretty late. Unfortunately the evening had ended badly, as Bruno had expected to stay the night with her, and quite unaccountably, she hadn’t wanted him to. She didn’t bother to examine the reasons for that, but dwelt instead on the ugly response with which he had greeted her decision. Although, in the end, they had parted in a reasonably normal manner, and this evening Bruno was dining with her at home, it still rankled. She didn’t like being taken for granted, and couldn’t forget what he had said.
But it was a beautiful morning and she felt full of energy, so she decided to go shopping straight away, before it got too hot. She threw open all the windows to air the rooms. Pia would close the shutters later, before the mid-day heat entered the house.
As she walked down the road, she could hear the sound of musicians practising and a soprano sang a few bars, and then repeated them. Flutes and trumpets predominated this morning. There was another six o’clock concert this evening, this time in the cloisters of the convent, so she must remember to call Bruno and maybe meet him there. She hadn’t been very nice to him last night. After the concert this evening they could walk home together, and dine on her terrace.
Over the next two days there would be an opera, baroque of course, in the theatre, and another afternoon concert given by the music students. In a few days time it was the feast of Saint Christopher and there would be a procession the evening before, which would wind its way through the medieval town centre, to end up at the Duomo, where there would be a mass, with a choir and organist. At the same time, the town was transforming itself for its annual summer festa, with music, jazz or pop, tables set out in all the little squares and goods for sale. There might be a fire-eater, or clowns on stilts for the children, and a lot of hard drinking, and serious eating for the adults.
As she passed Gino’s bar, she was surprised to see that it was closed. Something must have happened. She turned into the greengrocers to buy peppers, and was immediately told that Marco was at death’s door after being run over by a hit and run car, and had been taken first to Lucca by the ambulance then, as his head injuries were life-threatening, on to Pisa, where there was an excellent brain surgery unit.
“When did this happen?” she asked, and on being told that it had been at three that morning that the boy had been found, but that he had probably already lain there for ages, exclaimed, “But I was there myself not much before that”.
In every shop, the main topic was Marco; what had happened and most intriguing of all, why had he been there alone, and on foot at that time of night.
Coming out of the greengrocers, she bumped into Terry.
“Have you heard about Marco?” asked Terry
“Yes, I have, poor boy. His parents must be in a terrible state.”
“You know Hilary, the kids used to be great friends with him once, and he was always at the house. He was such a lovely child.”
“Yes, I remember, he was a sweet child, spoilt rotten of course, but he had such charm.”
“Sweet little children grow into nasty boys sometimes.”
“True, but not all of them. What are you getting at anyway.”
“Hilary I wasn’t going to tell you this, but now, what does it matter. I asked the kids why they don’t see him anymore, and they told me that he was, and I quote ‘doing stuff’, and that he was, again I quote “Ettore’s boy”. Well that translates as, ‘he was on drugs and having a homosexual relationship with Ettore.’ She looked sadly at Hilary.
“But Ettore wasn’t homosexual !” she exclaimed.
“They said he was bi-sexual. Look, that’s not the point, that was not a matter for concern. I mean Marco was a consenting adult, and that was his choice. I may add that my kids are far more intolerant than they realise. No, what worried me was the drugs aspect. Do you think that can be true?”
“I suppose it could be,” she replied slowly, remembering Marco’s physical aspect. “Besides, they would be likely to know. Kids do know about each other, they don’t tell us, not usually, but probably they are right.”
“Hilary, do you think he could have anything at all to do with Ettore’s murder? I’ve been thinking. If he was Ettore’s lover then maybe he was with him that night. Perhaps he saw something.”
“We don’t know that he was with him.”
“Well he usually was, so the kids told me, almost every evening, so why not that evening?”
“I don’t know, surely someone would have seen him.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. You’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you what I was thinking. I thought, well, as an hypothesis, suppose he was with Ettore and saw the murder, and then was run over so that he would keep quiet.”
“Hey Terry, you are going overboard on this one! Listen, for the murderer to try and kill him, means that he would have to know that Marco had seen him. Also it’s a bit late in the day, isn’t it? I mean if Marco knew who had killed his friend surely he would have said so immediately. Why wait so long?”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know though, I just feel that somehow there is a connection.”
“Look I’m sure, that if he had been with Ettore that evening, it would have come out by now and as for the hit and run accident, well, people panic. Whoever did it, probably thought the boy was dead and couldn’t face the music. It happens all the time.”
“What was he doing there in the first place? Maybe he had arranged a meeting with the murderer, to blackmail him, and then been killed.”
“It doesn’t sound very likely to me, Terry. You have an overactive imagination.”
“Well its more plausible than Ben’s theories.”
“Terry for God’s sake don’t go airing these ‘theories’, as you call them, around, and I hope you won’t tell too many people about the drugs side of it either, or the homosexual side come to that. The boy might be dying. Think of his parents.”
“Hey, I may be crazy, but not that crazy. No. This was for your ears only. I mean that.”
“Good. Look I have to go, Bruno’s eating with me this evening, and I want to get everything ready this morning, because I will probably have a rest this afternoon, and I want to go to the six o’clock concert.”
“Oh, where is it?”
“In the cloisters of the convent.”
“Great. I’ll see you there then.”
Assunta rattled the bead curtain as she came out of the greengrocers and smiled at Hilary, who asked her, “How’s Miriam?”
“As always. She is a very naughty old lady and I have great difficulty in stopping her drinking.”
She spoke Italian with such a strong Sicilian accent that sometimes Hilary found hard to understand.
“Tell her I’ll pop in soon. Send my love.”
Assunta moved on. She smiled to herself: these stupid English women talking loudly in the street, thinking no one could understand them. She had been listening to them, hidden in the shadows at the back of the shop. It was surprising how much information she got just by moving quietly, and appearing not to understand English. Not even Miriam knew that she could understand so much.
Hilary thought how sly Assunta looked. She had heard her praised to the sky by Miriam but had never liked her much herself. It was true that she and Salvatore did a good job in the house and garden, but there was something about them that made her uneasy. Salvatore, driving Miriam’s Mercedes with a satisfied smile on his plump face, always reminded her of the cat that had just eaten the canary.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Gino sat by the phone, staring at it, willing it to ring. Alda had left as soon as possible for San Giovani Rotondo driven by Rosaria, who had agreed that they should go, and immediately. He had slept badly, a couple of hours on the sofa, and was unshaven. For the first time this year he had not opened the bar. His thoughts were going round in circles. Why was the boy there in the first place? What could he have been doing alone? Who could have done this to him and then driven off and left him? Would he survive, would he be normal if he did? He sighed. Maybe Alda was right. She was so convinced that all she had to do was go to San Giovanni Rotondo and pray there. She had great faith, blind faith. Perhaps that was the sort of faith that was needed, the kind that moved mountains. He wished he had it.
Nigel and Robin were drinking coffee in the kitchen.
“You want to do what!” He nearly choked, and clattered his cup down on the saucer.
“Have a party, to show that we aren’t bothered by all this, that it isn’t affecting us, and that we aren’t guilty.”
“Really Robin, I don’t think that is a very good idea at all.”
“Well I think it’s a brilliant idea. What’s the alternative? We sit in here avoiding everybody. They’ll all think you did it and we can’t face them. Come on Nigel. Please.”
“I thought we could just gently slip back into normality. Anyway, suppose nobody came?”
“Of course they would come, for lots of reasons. The ghouls would want to see the place, and the others would think ‘Poor things, we simply must go or they’ll think they’re being black-balled’ or whatever the phrase is.”
“I just don’t like it. I personally do not wish to have either ghouls or kindly well-intentioned people all over the house. Apart from that, quite frankly after this morning’s do with Di Girolamo, I feel I might be arrested at any moment.”
“That’s exactly why you have a party, to show that you don’t feel that way.”
“Very clever. How do you want to word the invitations, ‘in case of sudden arrest the party will be postponed for twenty years.’?”
“Look Nigel, we both know you didn’t kill Ettore. Make an effort. You must look serene and untroubled. What could be better than a party to show how unconcerned you are.”
Nigel spluttered into his coffee. “You really are a ridiculous girl.”
“Hardly a girl, darling.” She pouted and fluttered her eyelashes in parody.
“Oh, very well. If you absolutely must, then do it. I just hope you won’t be sorry.”
“O.K. I’ll get started on all the arrangements.”
Hilary was making aubergine lasagne. First she grilled the aubergines she had picked from the vegetable garden. Then she made a fresh tomato sauce using her own onions, tomatoes and basil, and finally she prepared a béchamel sauce. She used oven-cook lasagne. She had bought peppers, to make ‘la peperonata’ which Bruno adored. They would be having grilled pork chops, sinfully high in cholesterol, but that was not a problem for Bruno, who burned up fat, and had to be careful or he lost weight. The last thing she prepared was a tiramisù, which went into the fridge. The whole menu was composed of his favourite food.
In the afternoon she was going to have a rest, partly because it was so hot and, as she hadn’t really slept much of late, partly to try and recuperate. Pia had been and gone, and the house was clean and tidy. The cat was rubbing himself against her legs and giving her little bites to express his love for her. She scooped him up. He was a very large, heavy Siamese, an un-doctored tomcat, whom she had named Cassius for his pugilistic inclinations. She took him upstairs to bed with her. His purring would accompany her into sleep.
Di Girolamo was listening to the local Maresciallo, Giovanni Biagioni, who was saying, “The blackmailer must have been Marco Rossi, he’s the son of Gino who owns that bar in the main piazza in the old town. He was a great friend of Ettore, followed him about like a little dog. I don’t know that he was his lover though; that could just be malicious gossip. As to the drugs side of it, well that could be true. I caught him smoking a joint, but he looks awful, so maybe he’s moved on to something stronger. You won’t be able to talk to him though. He’s the boy who was knocked down by a hit and run car in the early hours of the morning.”
“This morning?”
“Yes, I put the report on your desk.”
“Yes. I remember. Is he conscious?”
“No he’s in coma, on a respirator, wired up, you know.” He sounded a little embarrassed.
“Yes, I know.” His own wife had had been in coma for a week, before dying, three years ago. She had been driving home from work when a lorry failed to stop at a junction.
“Is he going to die?”
“Looks like it. I don’t think they hold out much hope. His mother’s gone off to see Padre Pio.”
Di Girolamo almost snorted in derision, thinking, really these superstitious peasants, as if that would do any good. They always spoke as if the man was still alive, probably because he was supposed to have appeared to so many people after his death. “Well that’s one key witness off the scene, or is he a suspect? I wonder. Have you any idea who did it?”
“No. We interviewed the man who found him and reported it, but it wasn’t him. He’d been with his girlfriend until literally five minutes before, and the doctor on the ambulance reckoned the boy had been there about 30 minutes, maybe more. Also his car was clean as a whistle, no fibres, blood, nothing, and it hadn’t been cleaned either. He’d been parked down by the river with his girl, and the wet sand marks were still there and had only just started drying, so we’d have seen if he’d cleaned it. We’ve put out a call to the good citizens of Borgo San Cristoforo to come forward and tell us if they went along that road after two thirty, or if they know of anyone who did.”
“You don’t seriously expect a hit and run driver to confess do you? After all he’s in the clear.”
“No, but a nosy neighbour might take the opportunity of telling us, or, as I said we were trying to pinpoint the time of the accident, someone might say “yes, I came along
at two thirty and he wasn’t there”. Something of that sort, I thought”
“Let me know if you get any response. Now, you knew this boy. Could he be the killer, despite, or perhaps because of, his relationship with Ettore Fagiolo?
“No.”
“Just no?”
“Look I told you, Ettore Fagiolo was his idol. Now you’re saying he could have been his lover, which is something I find hard to believe. Anyway he was his friend, and I can’t think why he should have wanted to kill him. Also, apart from anything else, Marco Rossi is a thin little thing, and Fagiolo was a biggish man, definitely much stronger than Marco. By the way, this is my ‘Area’ and if you don’t mind I’d rather you didn’t mention anything about… all that in your report, There’s no need, especially if the boy dies. Think of his parents. It’s not certain anyway, that he was…that way inclined, I mean. This is a dreadful place for gossip.”
“I agree. Was there ever any gossip about Fagiolo?”
“If you mean did people say he was left-handed, the answer is, no. The only gossip about him was that he was sex mad, and now we’ve got all the videos, it seems that was true, if they were his. Mind you, I’ve been thinking about that and wondering if he might have been selling them as a sideline. There were rather a lot of them, and most of them were new. I know a lot of them were homosexual, but a lot were normal, I mean, with men and women.” He was obviously embarrassed at having to talk about pornography, but was making an effort to sound casual.
“It’s possible he was dealing in porn, but most of those videos have turned out to be quite legitimate, so why bother to deal in something that anyone can buy?”
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