The realization seeps into my head like an ink stain. She tried to warn me, she told me I didn’t take him seriously enough. But in the end it wasn’t me who was in danger.
Pallioti grinds his cigarette into the coffee cup, pulls out his chair and sits. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table.
‘Let me tell you what I think,’ he says. ‘I think you developed a little extra-curricular interest, that somehow you thought your own experience might give you some special insight into whoever killed Ginevra Montelleone.’
‘That is not true.’
‘I sincerely hope not. Because if it is, it was a very, very foolish idea. And a dangerous one.’
Pallioti leans back in his chair and looks at me. Then he says, ‘I would have thought you, of all people, might have understood that. First a husband, then a room mate. You’re becoming a dangerous woman to know, Signora Warren.’
The words hit like a slap.
I am struggling not to burst into tears, pressing my nails into my palm to make it hurt, to make little stigmata marks the way I used to when I was young and about to get a shot at the doctor’s office, reminding myself that no matter what, Jesus’ pain was always worse than mine.
‘Thorcroft,’ I say finally. ‘I don’t use the name Warren any more.’
Pallioti picks up his pen. ‘Then tell me,’ he says, ‘Signora Thorcroft, if you can, about the last time you saw Signora Kalczeska.’
‘It was in the street, as we drove by, on the night of Palm Sunday.’
‘But not to speak to? You didn’t speak to her then?’
‘No. I waved, but she didn’t see us.’
‘And she was wearing?’
I close my eyes, hear the slap-slap of the wipers, see the nuns run across the road, the tall, blurry shape through the window.
‘I think a raincoat. It’s long, and pink. Maybe her tweed coat. I’m not sure.’
‘And the last time you spoke to her?’
‘The last time I spoke to her was at the party in the piazza the night before.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were all there. We had a table.’ My head is beginning to throb. ‘They asked me about all this yesterday. Over and over. I’ve already told you.’
Francesca Giusti leans forward. ‘Then tell me,’ she says.
I guess this is how they play good cop, bad cop here. I swallow, hating myself for having to dig in my bag for a Kleenex.
‘We had dinner, all of us together. We talked about the murders. And the Japanese girls told us about the Mantegna painting and the red bags. I’ve already told you everything I can remember. The last time I saw her that night,’ my voice sounds thin, and ripply, ‘she was dancing with someone. I don’t know who. I didn’t recognize him. He was wearing a mask. A lot of people were. His was half gold and half silver. Like something from Carnevale.’ I take a deep breath, trying to fend off the hollowness that’s blossoming in my chest.
‘And what time was this?’ Francesca Giusti asks.
‘About eleven. Maybe eleven-thirty.’
The picture of Billy’s body hangs in front of me like a canvas. Did he kill her up there at the Belvedere? Under the half-burnt pile of sticks and leaves is there blood on the ground? Is that why he set the fire? How much would a fire like that even destroy? And speaking of destroy, why didn’t I do that? Why didn’t I take the articles and photos and burn them? All of this, just like Ty’s death, all of this is my fault. The past is repeating itself, bleeding through into the present.
‘The man Signora Kalczeska was dancing with,’ Pallioti asks, ‘would you know him again?’
I shake my head. ‘He was medium height, wearing dark pants, or maybe black jeans, I think. I can’t remember. And maybe sneakers. Have you talked to Kirk?’ I ask. ‘Her boyfriend here?’ A picture of him rises in my mind, standing beside the table, his empty hand raised, staring after Billy. ‘They fought that night,’ I say slowly. There’s something wrong with the picture in my head, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. Everything is getting all mixed up again. ‘I don’t know what happened afterwards,’ I say finally. ‘We left. But he was watching her. I’m sure he would remember the person she was dancing with.’
‘We have spoken to Signor Taylor.’ Pallioti waves his hand in the air, either fanning smoke or dismissing Kirk, I’m not sure which. ‘Now,’ he asks, ‘back to Signora Kalczeska. She came home that night?’
‘I don’t know.’ I feel a prickle of exasperation. ‘How would I know? I told you. I wasn’t there. You should ask the old lady downstairs, she might have heard something.’
‘I assure you, we have.’ Pallioti looks at me with what I am sure is supposed to be a withering gaze, but all it does is irritate me, make me feel like a cornered animal that’s being poked with a stick.
‘You know,’ I say suddenly, ‘it was Billy who was interested in these killings. She brought them up at dinner that night, not me. She did find out about what happened to me, yes. But I didn’t tell her. Not at first. Not until she found out, anyways. I don’t tell people,’ I add. ‘I didn’t come back here because of it, and I don’t talk about it. And I didn’t show her what was in that envelope. I’m sorry if she found it. If that’s true, I’m sorry I didn’t burn it myself. But I didn’t show it to her. I wouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have done that to them.’
‘Them?’
I didn’t realize what I’d said.
‘The other women,’ I mutter. ‘I couldn’t show her their pictures. It would have been wrong.’
Pallioti and Francesca Giusti exchange a glance, then she asks, ‘Signora Warren—I’m sorry, Signora Thorcroft—why did you come back to Florence?’
‘Because my boyfriend—no, my fiancé,’ I hold up my ring, ‘my fidanzato is here.’
‘Signor Sanguetti?’
I nod.
‘None of this is his fault,’ I say. The wobbly tone goes out of my voice. Defending Pierangelo is something I can do. ‘None of it,’ I repeat. ‘He didn’t even know about the stuff I kept. I wanted to know about what happened to Eleanora Darnelli and Benedetta Lucchese because no one ever told me. I guess I thought I’d find out at the trial. But when Karel Indrizzio was killed there wasn’t a trial. And I didn’t feel then that I could ask.’
‘So you decided to find out for yourself?’
‘Yes.’
I’m grateful that she doesn’t actually make me say I took the material from Pierangelo. Or lie about whether or not I told him afterwards. She glances at Pallioti again, but he appears suddenly fascinated with his pen.
‘How much did Signora Kalczeska actually know?’ Francesca Giusti asks. ‘About the other women?’
‘Everything. Everything I knew. I told her.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
She nods. ‘You said you didn’t like to talk about it.’
‘I don’t. But Billy found out, I told you. And after that, well. We talked about a lot of things.’
‘But you never showed her the pictures?’
‘No.’
‘And the’—she hesitates, choosing her words carefully—‘the little gifts, left on their bodies. You told her about those?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Interesting,’ Dottoressa Giusti says. ‘You realize of course, or perhaps you don’t, that that information was never released to the press.’ She smiles almost ruefully. ‘We do that sometimes. To conserve the integrity of the investigation. You’ll find, I think, that there is nothing about them in the newspaper articles.’
She smiles at me again, not having to make the point that she’s trapped me. The only way I could know about them is if someone told me. Someone with an inside source, like Pierangelo.
‘But,’ she changes tack suddenly, ‘Signora Kalczeska knew what happened to you? You told her all about it? You talked about everything.’
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t actually what I said, but I’m so relieved she’s moved away from Pieran
gelo that I don’t correct her. ‘So, you were friends?’ she asks.
I’m not sure where she’s going with this, or why, but the word ‘friend’ sounds alien to me, almost laughable, as if such a pedestrian term could not possibly encompass Billy.
‘I guess,’ I say, eventually. ‘She was, well, yes. For lack of a better word, she was my friend.’
‘What would be a better word? Than “friend”?’
‘What?’
I feel Pallioti shift in his chair.
‘A better word than “friend.” Lover?’
I stare at her.
‘Were you lovers?’
‘No. That’s ridiculous!’
‘Is it?’
Francesca Giusti focuses on my face, and suddenly I feel Billy’s fingers, as she plucked open the buttons of my blouse, stood in my bedroom and traced the road map of my scars, her hair still glistening with damp from the rain at Fiesole.
Something dangerous is happening here. Somehow this woman, whom I have never met before, has put her finger on the one thing, touched the exact moment, when Billy reached out and stepped over all the boundaries I’d built around myself.
I look straight at her. ‘We were not lovers.’
Dottoressa Giusti considers me, as if it were not so much the truth she was after, as how I would respond. What exactly I would say. A moment later she says, ‘You’re a private person, aren’t you, signora?’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘Of course,’ she smiles. ‘But you have secrets. Hidden pictures. Things that, perhaps, you’d rather forget in order to build your new life here. You say Signora Kalczeska found out herself about what happened to you. Confronted you with it. It’s not something you like to talk about, understandably. Not, perhaps, something you want revealed.’ She pauses. ‘That intrusiveness, signora, someone you barely knew probing into your life like that, it must have been difficult. We understand,’ she adds, ‘that Signora Kalczeska could be pushy, had a temper. That she could be…volatile. That can’t have been easy.’
‘Listen.’ I lean forward, looking into the hard bright light in Francesca Giusti’s eyes. ‘There’s something you need to understand. I would never have done anything, anything at all, intentionally, to hurt Billy. You may not believe that, but it’s true.’
What’s unintentional, though—who I am and what happened to me and what it means; who might come looking for me and find Billy instead—all that hangs in the air between us. Francesca Giusti leans back in her chair, watching me.
‘You know,’ she says finally, ‘we have found no record of a text message on your phone.’
I look straight back at her. ‘I’m not surprised. I told the ispettore, I erased it.’
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she smiles.
‘Tell me, Signora Thorcroft, is there anything else you think we should know? Anything strange or out of place that you can remember? It doesn’t matter how trivial it seemed at the time. It might help us now.’
‘A priest.’ Francesca Giusti blinks and Pallioti glances up. ‘Billy said a priest came to the apartment. About—I don’t know, maybe two or three weeks ago. Looking for me. She said he asked for a Mary Warren. At the time, I thought it might have been a mistake. The old lady downstairs is an invalid, and her priest comes to her. I thought—’ I shake my head, trying to remember exactly what Billy said.
‘You thought what?’
‘I thought she might have been mixed up. That it might have been a coincidence. But I don’t now. She didn’t know my married name at the time. This was before I told her anything.’ Pallioti is watching me, the pen still in his fingers. ‘After I was attacked, you talked to a Father Rinaldo who’d been with us that day.’ Pallioti nods. The motion of his head so tiny it’s almost imperceptible. ‘I think it was him.’ I say. ‘I think he came looking for me, and met Billy. He was at the vigil for Ginevra Montelleone,’ I add. ‘I saw him. Her family, or at least her mother, used to worship at San Miniato. And I’ve seen him near our apartment. On the street.’
Francesca Giusti has been making notes in her leather notebook and now she glances up. ‘Is there anything else, signora?’
The white man. The El Greco saint with the pirate dog. I open my mouth and close it again. What can I tell them? That I keep seeing a mute homeless man who has my husband’s eyes? That I gave him a bunch of tulips? I shake my head. ‘No. Nothing.’
Dottoressa Giusti stands up, extending her hand to me as though we’ve just met at a cocktail party. Her grip is firm and cool. Obviously this interview, at least as far as she’s concerned, is over.
‘Thank you for coming in this afternoon, signora,’ she says. ‘We appreciate your cooperation. I understand that this must be a very difficult time for you. All the same, please accept our congratulations on your upcoming marriage.’ She lets go of my hand. ‘We’ve finished with your apartment,’ she adds, as if it’s an afterthought. ‘You’re free to move back there any time you choose. And,’ she says, smiling again, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that anything said in this room is entirely confidential? It’s very important, given the nature of our investigation. We’d appreciate it, if you don’t leave the city, for now.’
Francesca Giusti gathers up her leather pad and her fancy gold pen. As she reaches the door, she turns and looks back at me.
‘Obviously you know quite a bit about all this, signora.’ She nods at the manila envelope still lying in the centre of the table. ‘Not least, I’m sure, that Karel Indrizzio indulged in the rather common practice of keeping souvenirs. Signorina Darnelli’s shoe, the Lucchese girl’s watch. Caterina Fusarno’s handbag was missing, and Ginevra Montelleone’s clothes.’
She looks at me for a second, as if appraising what she’s going to say next, and whether or not I can be trusted.
‘We think that whoever is copying him,’ she says finally, ‘may be doing the same thing. I’m sorry that you saw Signora Kalczeska’s body. But given that you did, and that you knew her well, may I ask you, do you have any idea? Any thoughts at all, about what he might have taken from her? A piece of jewellery, perhaps? Something you noticed? A necklace? A watch?’
‘She didn’t wear a watch.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s not what he took.’
Now they are both looking at me, Pallioti holding another unlit cigarette, Francesca Giusti with her hand on the door knob.
‘What he took,’ I say, ‘was her hair. He took her fucking hair!’
By the time I get down to the lobby a few minutes later, my hands are shaking and I have to stop and lean against the cold marble wall. I wonder if I should put my head between my knees, if maybe that would miraculously stop all this from happening.
Today’s a holiday, but at the Questura people are coming and going. Nutcakes and psychopaths probably don’t take a day off for Easter. In fact, they probably consider it prime time. Young men, obviously cops, race by in pairs, which seems to be how they travel. Maybe, I think, they’re like geese, and mate for life. Then I see Pallioti. He’s coming down the wide steps of the main staircase, slowly, his face sheepish. Or possibly I’m imagining that.
‘Shall I call a car for you, Signora Thorcroft?’ He looks around the lobby of the Questura, vaguely, as though his mind is really somewhere else, and for the first time it occurs to me that he’s probably tired. That this case, and maybe his whole job—dealing with the kind of people who cut women up with knives and leave them ‘little presents’—is hell. ‘The driver was supposed to wait,’ he says, ‘but these guys—’
Pallioti shrugs, and pulls the cigarette package out of his pocket. I can see now that they’re Nazionale, the same brand that Billy smoked. This time when he offers me one, I take it.
The silver lighter flicks, and the smoke is warm and familiar. For a second, the act of standing here smoking together almost makes us friends, and I wonder what he’s giving up to be here this Easter Monday. A special lunch? Time with his children? His wife? Or does he live in a solitary ap
artment somewhere?
‘Can I ask you something?’
He raises his eyebrows, presumably in acquiescence.
‘The case against Indrizzio,’ I say, ‘not for me, but for Eleanora Darnelli and Benedetta Lucchese, how strong was it?’
Pallioti considers the end of his cigarette for a moment, then he shrugs, as if telling me cannot possibly do any more harm than has already been done.
‘He was charged with your husband’s murder and with attacking you, as you know. The similarities with the other two were strong,’ he glances at me, ‘as I presume you also know. Circumstantially, both were possible. He had no alibi, and was seen in the area the night Benedetta Lucchese was killed. We were still working on a connection to Eleanora Darnelli when he died. And then the killings stopped.’
‘Until this January.’
Pallioti inclines his head in a little bow. We smoke for a while in silence.
Then I say suddenly, ‘I should have asked you about Karel Indrizzio. I’m sorry. I know that now. I should have come to you.’ The words are coming out faster than I intend them to. ‘But you understand, don’t you?’ I ask. ‘You understand at least why I wanted to know?’
It’s suddenly important to me that he say yes, that this man who sat in the hospital, who travelled with me through the days when I veered close enough to the dead women to touch them, should understand. I look into his face and the grey eyes look back at me. This time, though, something moves deep inside them, like a fish stirring under a frozen river.
I’m sure he’s going to say something. I can feel the words forming in the air between us. Then he changes his mind.
‘You could have asked me, signora, of course. But I’m not sure what I could have told you.’ He shrugs, and adds, ‘The past and the future, it’s all around us, but so difficult to know. We live in the picture,’ Pallioti says, ‘but we rarely see it.’
He takes a long pull on his cigarette and stubs it out into the sand ashtray beside us. ‘Now,’ he smiles. ‘Shall I find you a car?’
I stare at him. Then I drop my own cigarette into the sand. ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll walk.’
The Faces of Angels Page 29