by Jon Tracy
Tom can see she’s tense. Strung tighter than a new guitar. He lets her pace for a second and then opens his arms. ‘Hey, come here.’
Valentina folds herself into his embrace. Puts her face against him and silently enjoys the closeness. She’s spent so long coping with problems on her own, it’s strange to have someone around to share them with. More than strange. A little awkward. She kisses his cheek and slowly pulls away. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’
They sit alongside each other on the sofa and she takes his hand.
‘I thought I had everything locked down. Processes in place. Situation under control. Truth is, this whole damned thing isn’t making sense, and I’m starting to see shadows.’
‘Maybe talking through it will help you see some light.’
She pulls her legs up and sits facing him at the end of the sofa. ‘I went to the hospital today to see the woman we’d arrested, and she went insane. She was speaking as though she came from centuries ago and shouting weird things. Then she went crazy and nearly killed Louisa.’
‘Louisa?’
‘Verdetti, the woman in charge of the clinic. She had her by her throat and was choking the life out of her.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘Just about. Very shaken, though.’
‘I can imagine.’ Tom tries to picture the incident. ‘Was the attacker right-handed or left-handed?’
Valentina demonstrates. ‘Left-handed.’
‘I remember that you said that whoever carried out the dismemberment at the church was left-handed. Is this the same person?’
Valentina lets out a sigh. ‘That’s one of the confusing things. The blood on our suspect’s clothes doesn’t match the severed hand found at the church.’
‘Weird.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Can you put the suspect at the church?’
‘Not yet. There are no CCTV cameras around there. Canvassing of locals has come up blank. Forensics are still going over fingerprints and trace evidence to see if there’s anything to prove she was anywhere near the Bocca della Verita.’
Tom shuffles round on the sofa so he’s directly facing her. ‘What was she saying today? You said she was talking strangely.’
‘It was unbelievable. She became this totally different person.’ Valentina clicks her fingers. ‘Snap! Suddenly she was this Cassandra figure, talking as though she was back in old Roman times.’
‘And what did she say?’
She pauses to remember. ‘Nothing hugely significant. She behaved like she was a very powerful woman with a big house and lots of money.’ She laughs. ‘Cheeky bitch called me a whore!’
Tom smiles and rubs a foot that has now trespassed on to his lap. ‘If only she knew what a virtuous life you lived.’
She gives him a playful kick. ‘I was very fine and celibate until you led me astray.’
He can see mischief in her eyes. ‘What else?’
She screws up her face. ‘ Domina! Dominus! Templum! Libera nos a malo!’
‘Mistress. Master. Temple. Deliver us from evil.’
‘She said it a couple of times. Like it was a mantra.’
‘Somewhat cryptic.’
‘Louisa said that was the case with Cassandra women.’ He frowns at her.
‘It’s a psychological condition. Some kind of problem where women dissociate and start blurting out words or messages that no one else can understand.’
‘And that’s your problem. You’ve got to understand, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Suffragio. Le anime nel purgatorio. Suffragio! I know what it means. Suffrage. The souls in Purgatory.’
‘That isn’t Latin, it’s just Italian.’
She scowls at him. ‘I know that.’
Tom becomes thoughtful. Drifts away into a world of internal focus. Tries to clear the white noise and pick out the key words. Mistress. Master. Temple. Suffrage. Souls. Purgatory. He feels like he’s grasping at straws. ‘The Latin she did use is stilted. All I can think of is that maybe it’s a reference to some ancient gods who share a temple. Does that mean anything?’
He takes the puzzled look on her face to be a no.
‘The last part might be easier. Isn’t there a temple or special church dedicated to souls or suffrage?’
She laughs. ‘Absolutely. About a thousand of them.’
‘No, seriously. I’m sure I recall – from my previous job – somewhere specific, a chiesa run by a special mission.’
She unfolds herself and walks across the room. ‘My Latin is about as poor as my regular church attendance. All I can remember is Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.’
Tom laughs. ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon?’
‘That’s it! Straight out of Harry Potter – a Hogwarts motto, I think.’ From a shelf she collects a handful of tourist leaflets and guide books. ‘These came free with the apartment.’ She drops a pile on his lap ‘Every place of interest in Rome is covered in there. You search those and I’ll look through these.’
She sits back down and makes the mistake of stretching her legs out into his space.
Tom grabs her feet and pulls her flat on to the sofa. Valentina can’t help but let out a girlish shriek.
He leans over the top of her, arms as broad as the pillars of the Pantheon, a smile as wide as the Tiber. ‘In a minute. We’ll do them in a minute. Okay?’
Valentina’s eyes sparkle. She tilts her chin so her mouth is so close to his she can feel his breath on her lips, ‘Fine by me. But if we’re stopping, it’d better take more than just a minute.’
33
Several hours later, Valentina and Tom are outside the church of the Sacro Cuore del Suffragio on the Lungotevere Prati in the Tiber Meadows, just down from Il Palazzaccio, the giant Palace of Justice.
Neither of them is sure what they’re supposed to be looking for.
But both are certain that this is the place they should be looking.
Dusk has turned to total darkness and the moon over the white facade of the chiesa makes it look like a fairy-tale fortress fashioned from icicles. It’s completely out of context with all the other mundane buildings around it, a twenty-metre-high explosion of innumerable spires, human-sized statues and spectacular stained glass. Tom presumes its visual pureness comes from marble, but as he gets closer, he’s surprised to find that the facade has been made from masses of concrete.
No matter, it’s still amazing.
The only neo-Gothic church in Rome.
So stunning that in its prime it was christened the Little Dome of Milan.
A small, balding priest in a short-sleeved dog-collared shirt stands in the portico, rubbing thin hairy arms as he watches his two late visitors approach.
He knows what they’re here for.
They called ahead to check the church was open. Valentina gives him her best smile. ‘Father Brancati?’
‘ Si.’
She extends her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am Captain Morassi, Valentina Morassi. This is Tom Shaman.’ She thinks of adding that Tom used to be a priest, but decides not to label him. If he wants, he’ll mention it himself.
‘ Buonasera.’ Tom gives Brancati a firm handshake. ‘Your church is incredibly beautiful. The frontage is breathtaking.’
‘ Grazie.’ Brancati walks them in as he talks. ‘The inside has not the splendour of the outside, but as you apparently know, it is even more intriguing.’
Tom and Valentina trade glances.
‘This is a parochial church served by the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, to which I belong. It was built at the turn of the nineteenth century and consecrated during the First World War.’ He huffs. ‘The so-called Great War. I fail to see why they called it great. No war is great, and that one was monstrous.’
‘Did your family lose people?’ Tom blinks as his eyes adjust to the low yellow candlelight inside the church.
‘On both my father’s and mother’s
sides – at the battle of Caporetto. They died within days of each other, cut down on the banks of the Isonzo river.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘ Grazie. It is long ago, but in my family it is never forgotten.’ He stops and raises his hands to the huge vaulted ceilings. ‘In daylight, the sunlight filtering through the rose windows is heavenly, especially over the altar. All this was the dream of a French priest called Victor Jouet.’
They stand for a moment in the cool of the church and look over the nave, with its three aisles, each ending in an apse, divided by quatrefoil pillars. Tom has an urge to sit in one of the pews, a desire to soak up the tranquillity and calm of the place.
But there isn’t time.
Father Brancati is already genuflecting in front of the altar and turning right into an annex.
The most famous church annex in Rome.
A room of miracles.
‘So, here you are.’ He waves his arms again. ‘The Museo delle Anime del Purgatorio – the Museum of Souls in Purgatory.’
It’s nothing to look at.
A long glass display case with sliding doors and an ugly hardwood surround dominates one wall. The exhibits are small and are mounted on cheap pegboard. They wouldn’t fetch ten euros as a job lot in a car boot sale. They appear to be bits of cloth, books and old papers. Nothing to catch the eye.
Tom studies the objects closely. Just being next to them makes him feel energised. It’s as though an electric current is attached to his nerves and is gently pulsing away in wave after wave.
Father Brancati can see he’s transfixed. ‘You understand what they are? Their significance?’
Tom’s eyes don’t leave the case. ‘I do. They’re messages from Purgatory. Pleas from souls trapped there to be cleansed of their sins and allowed redemption.’
Valentina leans close to the glass. She can see scorched hand marks and fingerprints on prayer books.
‘It is evidence of another world,’ says Brancati, ‘proof that when we die, our souls go into Purgatory to be purified and made holy enough to pass into the glory of heaven.’ He taps the glass. ‘These apparitions reached out. They wanted people to pray for them, to speed their passage into God’s glorious company.’
Valentina can’t help but ask a police-like question, ‘What evidence is there that these relics weren’t faked?’
Brancati isn’t angered. He’s addressed the point a thousand times. ‘All the relics have sworn testimonies by those who witnessed the apparitions. Look closer and you’ll see that each exhibit is accompanied by the story of its origin.’
Valentina looks. She’s unimpressed. There’s nothing there that would stand up in court. But then again, she tells herself, she knows people have faith, and faith can’t be detected by Luminol spray or DNA swabs.
Brancati taps the glass. ‘In December 1838, Giuseppe Stitz was reading a book of prayers when this mark of a hand appeared on it. He gave testimony that he then heard the voice of his dead brother asking for prayers.’
Valentina has seen enough of the exhibits. ‘Thank you, Father. You have been most helpful.’
Tom extends his hand and shakes that of the priest. ‘Would it be all right if Captain Morassi and I look around the church and then come back to see you in the sacristy if we have any final questions?’
‘I must go in twenty minutes.’ He holds up his wrist and a cheap watch. ‘Will you be done by then?’
‘We will,’ Valentina readily promises.
He nods and leaves.
‘Well,’ she says to Tom, ‘what do you make of that?’
‘A little more than you do.’ Tom glances around. ‘But that’s not the point. I don’t see any real tie to your woman prisoner. Except that she sent us here.’
‘ Maybe sent us here.’
‘Maybe,’ he concedes, then walks past her into the main body of the church.
The place is in half-light. Searching it seems impossible.
Tom wanders up the left and Valentina the right. It all suddenly seems pointless to her. With most searches you know what you’re looking for – a gun, a knife, a murder weapon, bloodstains, footprints, fingerprints, hairs, fibres, a suicide note or even a death-bed confession.
She finds a stack of prayer books.
Pointless.
There are dozens of them.
Each with hundreds of pages and thousands of words. She looks across the church and pauses. What did she just think of?
Notes, suicide notes, confession notes. She makes her way through the pews to one of two old-fashioned con fessionals pushed against the right-hand wall of the church.
Tom sees her from the other side and drifts across. Valentina slips through a rusty-brown curtain and sits on the bench where the priest normally positions himself. She notices there are two wooden shutters, allowing him to hear confession from either side. She opens them both and smiles at the sight of a tube of peppermints tucked away in the corner of a narrow shelf.
Tom’s face appears through the shutter in front of her and makes her jump.
‘Madonna!’ she says, pleased that nothing worse slipped out.
‘Three Hail Marys as penance,’ chides Tom. ‘You find anything?’
‘Nothing.’ She pulls a small penlight torch from her pocket and shines it around. ‘Just Father Brancati’s food stash.’
‘I had a McDonald’s during confession once. It was coming up to Christmas and I was doing double shifts. You’d be amazed what goes on in those booths.’
He walks around the outside and squeezes in alongside her.
It’s a tight fit.
Valentina has to chase off some sudden and inappropriate thoughts that would surely get her a very long spell in Purgatory, if not somewhere worse. ‘How long is it since you’ve been in one of these?’ she asks, shining her torch up across the plaster of the ceiling and wall.
‘Seeking forgiveness, or giving forgiveness?’
‘Either.’
‘Three years since I heard confession. Not quite as long since I wiped the slate clean.’
‘Is that really what it does?’ She plays the beam across the wood inside the confessional.
‘With venial sin, yes. In the case of my mortal sins, no.’ For a second, she remembers how they met. The first time he told her of the incident in Los Angeles. The lives he took in a fight in the gang-infested streets of Compton. She’s about to say something comforting when she thinks she sees something. ‘Move a minute. Just move to one side.’
Tom shuffles round.
Valentina crouches, and her knees crack. She holds the torch like she’s throwing a dart and focuses the beam on the wall. Scraped into the plasterwork are the words DOMINA.
DOMINUS. TEMPLUM. LIBERA NOS A MALO.
She focuses on the words.
Cassandra’s words.
But Tom’s eyes are on something beneath the writing.
A geometric shape, hovering beneath the phrase DELIVER US FROM EVIL.
A triangle.
A very special triangle.
34
Father Brancati goes wild when he sees the graffiti.
‘ Vandali! ’ he shouts. ‘They have no respect. They steal. They wreck things. Not even the Church is sacred any more.’
‘A little strange,’ Tom points out, more quietly, ‘to find vandals who write in Latin.’
Until then the priest hasn’t noticed. He’s so familiar with the old language that he subconsciously translated the text as automatically as reading a prayer book. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. Very strange.’ He moves to touch the lettering with his fingers, to feel the imprint of whatever rough tool was used to scrape out the plaster.
Valentina grabs his hand. ‘Please don’t touch it. It’s a crime scene and will need to be photographed.’
He looks shocked. ‘Crime scene? What? Why?’
She gently leads him out of the confessional. ‘As I mentioned when I phoned you, we’re investigating a violent incident, and there is a link to your c
hurch that we have to look into.’ She eases him round and walks him part way down the aisle. ‘You’ve been very kind and helpful, Father. Would you mind waiting in the sacristy until I have finished here?’
Brancati minds very much, but still does as she says.
He’s worried about what’s going on.
Worried about the publicity, the effect on the mission, what his superiors might say. He heads for the sacristy and goes straight to the bottle of brandy he keeps in the cupboard alongside the altar wine.
He’ll find his mints later.
Tom takes a snap of the writing with his camera phone while Valentina makes a call to the station.
She reappears moments later. ‘Federico is sending a photographer and CSI; they’ll take shots, and dust and spray everything and anything all around here.’ She points at the triangle. ‘That’s identical to the pendant we found on the prisoner. She even wrote about it in a story, said she’d had it stolen from her while she was being persecuted in ancient Rome. Does it mean anything to you?’
Tom is on his knees, peering closely at the symbol. ‘Maybe it’s a scalene.’
‘A what?’
‘Scalene. It means that none of the sides are the same length and none of the angles match. It’s the only triangular shape where none of the sides or angles are equal.’
‘Geometry wasn’t my strong subject at school.’
‘What was?’
‘Boys,’ she says cheekily. ‘Aside from the boring geometry, does it mean anything?’
Tom stares at it while he thinks. ‘Triangles have always had immense symbolic power. The Nazis used a whole range of them to pick out and persecute minority groups in their concentration camps. Red for political dissidents, green for criminals, purple for Jehovah’s Witnesses, brown for Gypsies, black for lesbians and pink for homosexuals. I believe the famous six-pointed star was invented because gay Jewish men had to wear a pink triangle overlapping the yellow one that denoted their religion.’
‘Triangle overload,’ observes Valentina.
Tom isn’t put off by her interruption. ‘Indeed. Jewish communists had to wear overlapping red and yellow ones. Modern homosexual communities still use pink triangles as a symbol of gay and lesbian liberation.’