The Fatal Touch

by Conor Fitzgerald

  “So what did you think when you saw this man who had hurt your mother like that?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t what I expected. He was far older. I knew he would be, but when I saw him, I couldn’t make the connection. My image of him was from a photograph my mother showed me a few times over the years. He was young then. Handsome, too. Like that self-portrait in his room in the gallery. I’d see this old guy sitting there, with this blond Adonis painting above him, and it was like the young man had gone away, and Henry was his father, sitting there, ageing, waiting for the boy in the picture to come back. I half expected him to walk in the door one day.”

  “And how did he behave himself with you?”

  “Oh, he was charming,” said Emma, shaking her shoulder in an involuntary shudder.

  “Wait, what do you mean by charming?”

  “Theatrically charming. He used a lot of words. He was always saying things that . . . like he was saying something else. Not double entendres. Opposites. Constant irony. Like he’d say I was an ugly little bat that would ‘scare the horses,’ which is a weird phrase he used, and I knew it was a compliment. I’d have a new dress, he’d ask me what garbage dump I found it in, what was wrong with my hair, why I was born cross-eyed, stumpy-legged. But you could tell he meant the opposite, and if I was feeling a bit sad, he’d pick it up immediately and not make any jokes that day. He could be really funny.”

  “And he never guessed whose daughter you were? Never made any reference to your mother here, or to Nightingale?”

  “No. He knew nothing.”

  “Emma, are you sure that Henry Treacy did not know who you were? Can you be one hundred percent positive about that?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Angela fingering her scar.

  “I don’t see why this is so important,” said Emma.

  “Frankly,” said Caterina, shifting her gaze to include Angela, “I don’t either, but you two are the ones who contrived to hide the fact from Henry Treacy, by now an elderly man, and not your partner, Angela, for, what, decades? You’re the ones who did all the hiding. You’re the ones who decided it was so important to do, and now you feel it’s important to tell me.”

  “It wasn’t as if I had a strong paternal bond with Nightingale,” said Emma. “He is more like a godfather or a great-uncle. It wasn’t hard to pretend I didn’t know him, because I wasn’t really pretending.”

  Caterina turned to Angela. “You asked if you could smoke. Well, here is your chance. There is a coffee machine on the second floor at the end of the corridor, then a small balcony that gives you a nice view of the Galleria Pamphili. If anyone questions your right to be there, tell them I sent you.”

  “Is my daughter in trouble?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you want to talk with her alone. Is she?”

  “Have two cigarettes, with a pause of about five minutes between one and the next, and then come back here.”

  Angela fished a packet of cigarettes from her purse, pulled out an elegant silver lighter. “I’ll leave my bag here?”

  “Fine.”

  When Angela left the room, Caterina turned to Emma. “You said Treacy could be funny. When was he funny?”

  “When he began drinking. Before he got drunk.”

  “Did he drink at work?”

  “No. He was hardly ever there.”

  “So when did you see him drinking?”

  Emma hesitated before seeming to dismiss the possibility of a denial. “I went out a few times with him in the evenings.”

  “Exactly as your mother told you not to.”

  “My mother is extremely protective. She still thinks I’m a baby.”

  “Whereas you are not, of course,” said Caterina. “Just you and Treacy?”

  “No, no. With Pietro. He’s like a boyfriend.”

  “Like a boyfriend? Whose?”

  “OK. He’s my boyfriend.”

  “What did he call you?”

  “That’s kind of embarrassing . . . Sometimes he’d call me his little . . .”

  “Not in that sense! What name did he call you by?”

  “Oh,” she blushed. “Manuela. I was really getting used to it.”

  “You must have despised him a bit if you never even told him your real name.”

  “I didn’t despise him.”

  “You must have felt he was someone you couldn’t trust with a secret.”

  Emma bit her lip. “Well, I think he liked me. He still does, by the way. A lot.”

  “When you were out with Treacy, was Pietro always there?”

  “Almost always. Not that we went out all that often together. When we did, it was to the Bar San Callisto. We’d have a drink or two, and then we’d leave and Treacy would stay. Treacy was entertaining. The thing about Treacy was he knew so much and he seemed to have met a lot of famous people: Woody Allen, de Chirico, Francis Bacon, Samuel Beckett, Mitterrand, Gore Vidal, Mick Jagger, Harold Pinter, Charles Saatchi, Van Morrison, Damien Hirst, Gigi Proietti, Christian De Sica, the whole Pamphili family, Patricia Highsmith, and George Clooney. Who’s probably the only one of them who isn’t dead.”

  “So you enjoyed his company?”

  “He was cool. For an old man. I admired him.”

  “You know he wasn’t that old. You keep saying how old Treacy was. Maybe it was because he was sick.”

  Emma looked at her without comprehension.

  “Forget it. Were you with him on the night he got killed?”

  “On the night he died, you mean? No. But I knew you would be the person to ask me that.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “You don’t like me.”

  “That is absolutely not true, but it’s not my concern to persuade you. Where were you that night?”

  “At home with Pietro.”

  “So he’s your alibi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind giving me his telephone number?”

  Emma shrugged, with what Caterina gauged to be exaggerated nonchalance. “Sure,” she said.

  “Now,” said Caterina.

  “I don’t know it by heart.”

  “It’s in your phone, I imagine.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Emma pulled out her phone, slid it open, and tapped on the buttons with her clear polished nail. She read out the number, which Caterina wrote down.

  “Thank you,” said Caterina.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “May I have your phone a minute?”

  “What for?”

  “I just need to check the number.”

  Emma slid the phone across the table, giving it a sharp spin as she did so, but Caterina caught it. “Under Pietro, or under his surname—what is his surname, by the way?”

  “Quaglia.”

  “Here we go.” Caterina pursed her lips, checked her notebook, and then the phone. “You seem to have reversed the last digits. It ends in 37, not 73,” she said.

  “Or you wrote it down wrong.”

  “I am pretty sure I wrote it down exactly as you dictated it,” said Caterina.

  “Well, I am borderline dyslexic,” said Emma. “I sometimes do that. You can ask my mother.”

  “I’m going to call this Pietro, you know.”

  “I know you are.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “You’ll see,” said Emma. “Pietro worships the ground I walk on.”

  “You’re not the sort of woman who lets men walk all over her,” said Caterina. “Like your mother does.”

  “Like she used to, but she learned from her mistakes. No man is going to hurt her again. She has taught me to strike first, told me if she ever got a second chance, that is what she would do. Strike first.”

  “Does she have any photos of Treacy?”

  “A few photos, yes. Out of sight of John. Not because she was afraid of John, but just so as not to hurt his feelings.”

  “Any other mementoes?”r />
  “Well, there are some Treacy Old Master imitations on the walls. They are signed, so they are not pretending to be the real thing. They’ve always been there. And then there is the one Mother keeps in her bedroom. It’s by far the worst.”

  “How do you know it’s his?”

  “Because when it arrived, first she told me, and was all happy about it, but then she panicked and asked me not to mention it to anyone, like it was a big secret. If she hadn’t said anything, I would have forgotten all about it.”

  “No mention of it to Nightingale.”

  “I suppose not. But it was not like Nightingale was always visiting us. I saw him in our house about six times in twenty years. I know they met at his place in Rome a few times, but that, too, was extremely rare.”

  “What’s in Treacy’s picture?”

  “It’s just a picture of a vista in a park. A fountain, a few trees. It’s pretty unimpressive. Like a Sunday artist’s effort. It’s hard to imagine that he even painted it. It must have taken him five minutes.”

  “And yet your mother keeps it in her bedroom?”

  “Yes. She admits it’s no good either. Says it’s the thought that counts. He sent it once with a letter saying he was sorry, and he wouldn’t touch her again.”

  “Did he touch her again?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t think so.”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Angela poked her head in.

  “That was just one cigarette,” said Caterina. “But that’s all right. I think we’ve finished here. For now.”

  Chapter 33

  As she walked out of the interview room, Caterina phoned Emma’s boyfriend. They had probably worked things out already, but there was no point in giving Emma another chance at fixing up her alibi. The voice that answered reminded her immediately of Elia. It tried to be gruff and it was certainly deeper than her son’s, but it still had the note of interest and expectancy of a young person. She said who she was and told him to come in immediately, and, before he could ask why or even think of refusing, she demanded to know how long it would take him.

  He hesitated and said he had a lecture.

  “Skip it,” she told him. “Are you at the university now?”

  “Yes, engineering department.”

  “Then it will take you no more than half an hour. Don’t keep me waiting. Give my name at the desk downstairs, they’ll send you up. Inspector Mattiola. Mattiola, yes. I’ll tell you that when you get here.”

  She pressed the button for the elevator, and found herself standing beside Grattapaglia.

  “Enjoy your walk?”

  “It helped. I didn’t go for a drink, though. Alcohol’s not good for my mood. Even a Campari makes me aggressive.”

  “Have you ever tried anger management?”

  “Yes. And it doesn’t work.”

  They stepped out of the elevator and went into the operations room, which was empty. Rospo’s absence was normal and welcome, but she was surprised Panebianco wasn’t there. Grattapaglia shuffled across the floor toward his desk.

  She tried to think of some encouraging words. “Don’t clear out your desk. Maybe they won’t suspend you.”

  “A ten-day suspension is automatic from the day I have my first meeting with the investigator, and that’s today. The difference is whether it will be with or without pay and what happens afterwards.”

  “Oh.” She should have realized that. “Maybe you’ll be back in ten days’ time.”

  “Sure.” Grattapaglia pulled open a drawer and emptied hundreds of staples and colored rubber bands into his bag.

  “You’re filling the bag with rubber bands.”

  “So report me.”

  “I may have a lead on the mugger,” said Caterina. “Though it’s a long shot.”

  “Yeah?” She could see as a vein in Grattapaglia’s neck began to pulse and swell. Grattapaglia balled his hands into fists and pressed them on his desk. “Looks to me like I won’t be helping you there. I’m going to get suspended, you know? All because a certain female Inspector didn’t . . .”

  “What didn’t I do, Sovrintendente? Change your personality? Stop your anger in time? Do you need me to look out for you, to mother you, is that it?”

  Grattapaglia took a threatening step toward her, and she stepped in toward him.

  “You know what the secret of not getting angry is?” she said, as he stepped back in surprise at her move. “It’s not to get angry.”

  “That’s useful. Did they teach you that in an anger management class?”

  “I’ve never been to any such class, idiot. I’m self-taught. Look, half the time when you get angry, you probably have good cause and half the time you don’t. Or pick any ratio you want. Let’s say ninety-nine percent of the time you get angry, you’re absolutely in the right. So then what happens? Well, usually you think you have not only a right but an obligation to get angry, like it was compulsory. But it’s not. Next time, when something happens that fires a rage in you, just do nothing. Don’t bother. Don’t get angry. You’re right, the world has wronged you, like it wrongs trapped miners and starving children, car-crash or bomb victims, people swept away in floods, burned alive in their beds, women raped by soldiers. Except it’s probably wronged you a bit less than them. So fuck it. I’m not even asking you to drop the hate. Save it for later. Just don’t wrong yourself again. It’s not morality, it’s simple practical advice. Getting angry is like trying to treat a burn by burning yourself again in the very same spot. Stupid.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?”

  “I wasn’t, but you’re reminding me that maybe you are. Go into the interview. Hate the investigator, hate the questions, hate the unfairness, resent me, resent the Spaniard, Blume, the Questore—You are right. Fine. You feel the rage welling up, fine. But don’t act on it, don’t claim it as yours.”

  “And you’re the great expert because?”

  “Because I am a woman in law enforcement. Underpaid, underappreciated, overworked. Because I lost a husband to a criminally negligent driver who didn’t even get his license suspended, and because I have a mother who disapproves of how I’m bringing up what she considers her grandchild rather than my son, because I’m getting old, getting blamed, getting tired. Noise, dirt, and ignorance when I’m on the street, violence, waste, and pettiness at work. Want me to go on?”

  “No. I get what you’re saying.”

  “So maybe you’re not stupid, then.”

  Grattapaglia grinned. “No one in here has ever dared call me stupid. Except for the Commissioner, but sooner or later he says that to everyone. But you’re right. I’m really fucking stupid.”

  “Anger makes us do dumb things. It takes over our actions before we even know that it’s there.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s like!” said Grattapaglia. “You don’t see it coming, then, suddenly wham!”

  “And down goes a Spanish diplomat.”

  “It took four blows, actually.”

  “Don’t go to the opposite extreme and make light of it either,” said Caterina.

  “No, I won’t. Look, about you not warning me . . .”

  “You’re right, I should have mentioned it.”

  “You weren’t to know what I was going to do. Shit, I didn’t know I was going to do that.”

  “I know.”

  A young man appeared at the far end of the room.

  Grattapaglia pointed at him and said, “Who’s he?”

  Caterina looked across the room. “A witness. Probably a false alibi. I’d almost forgotten about him. I wanted to get out of here soon.”

  “So break his alibi quickly,” said Grattapaglia. “I can give him a slap if you want. Nothing left to lose anyhow . . . From the look on your face, I can tell you don’t know when I’m joking. Women rarely do.”

  Caterina went over to the youth and led him to her desk. He looked to her like he was thirteen, not twenty-six. He looked like he was about to vomit from fear.

>   She sat him down in front of her. “You are Pietro Quaglia?”

  The young man cleared his throat, cleared it again, but his voice still came out in a squeak. “Yes. Can I ask why—?”

  “No. Just answer me this. Manuela Ludovisi. Do you know who she is?”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “I see. Where were you last Friday night? Friday September 26.”

  “I was with her. All evening and all night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No trips to the Bar San Callisto, out and about.”

  “No. We watched a video.”

  She could see he was ready to fire off the name of the movie, so she didn’t bother asking. Instead, she leaned sideways to look behind him and addressed Grattapaglia. “Is that holding cell free?”

  The youth turned awkwardly in his seat to see the policeman she was talking to.

  Grattapaglia paused in the middle of moving piles of papers from the top of his desk to Rospo’s trash can. “What holding cell?” he said. “We don’t have any . . . ” He caught Caterina’s eye. “We don’t have any free. Shit, you know better than to ask me that. You’ll have to put him in with those two . . . ” he made a clutching movement with both hands. “You know, the two who . . .”

  Pietro spun around and stared at Caterina.

  “What two? Two whats?”

  “Choo choo, chuff, chuff !” said Grattapaglia from behind, and laughed. “Looks to me like he’ll like it.”

  “Jesus Christ, what is he talking about?” said Pietro. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Have you got a lawyer?” said Caterina.

  Pietro glanced around the room, desperately looking for someone resembling a lawyer. But he was alone there with Caterina and Grattapaglia.

  “No. But I have a right!”

  “I’ll go and get you one, Pietro. Maybe it’ll take a few hours.” She pulled out a pair of plastic handcuffs. “So if you don’t mind I’ll just slip these on you and leave you in the holding cell until . . .”

  “No!”

  “It’s OK, Pietro,” said Caterina gently. “Listen to the advice the Sovrintendente here gives you, and you’ll be fine.”