‘Well, not everyone is perfect all the time,’ Pallioti says. He smiles tightly, but the frustration in his voice is palpable.
‘How much of a practising Catholic was Indrizzio?’ Babinellio asks.
Pallioti shrugs. ‘Nothing special. As far as we know, he went to church occasionally. Most of the homeless do,’ he adds. ‘Especially if it’s raining and there’s food.’
‘Well.’ Francesca Giusti picks up her gold pen and puts it down again. ‘As I see it, gentlemen,’ she says, ‘we have three choices. Either Karel Indrizzio got out of that accident, by luck or because he wasn’t in the van in the first place, and he’s come back. Or he’s dead, and we have a copycat. Or,’ she says finally, ‘he’s dead and he never did it in the first place. In which case we’ve had a serial killer loose in this city for more than two years.’
No one seems to want to address the last possibility, and eventually Pallioti stands up.
‘You know, no matter who it is,’ he says, ‘the point is to stop him.’ He picks up the calendar, his voice getting increasingly agitated. ‘And there is nothing,’ he says, ‘nothing in this—is there?—that helps us predict why he chooses these women, specifically. Or when he’ll do it again.’
He walks across the terrace, then comes back and sits down. ‘I mean, good God,’ his voice rises in exasperation, ‘there are martyrdoms for most names on every damn day of the year on these calendars. So, how does he choose which ones?’ He glares at Babinellio, as if the doctor should be able to answer this. ‘Out of all the women in Florence,’ Pallioti asks, ‘how does he choose, huh?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t.’
They all look at me, as if they’re a little surprised to find I’m still here, even Pierangelo. ‘Maybe he chooses the women first,’ I say, ‘then waits for the right day.’
Pallioti considers this for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is a little softer.
‘That still doesn’t help us, signora. Unless we know why he chooses these women, specifically, we can’t anticipate him. And if we can’t anticipate him, we can’t stop him. And if we can’t stop him, we are at his mercy. All we can do is wait and react. Which means, unless he makes a mistake or we get very lucky, more women are going to die. You don’t think he’ll stop, do you?’ he asks Babinellio suddenly. ‘I mean, there was a hiatus of—what? Eighteen months?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ says Babinellio. He shrugs. ‘If it’s the same person, there are a hundred things that could explain it. He could have been out of the city, even out of the country. Workers move easily, thanks to Brussels. For all we know he could have been anywhere in the EU. The world, for that matter. But whether he’s a copier or not,’ he adds, ‘no matter who killed the first two women and attacked the signora, we do know two things. One: the same person who killed the Fusarno woman also killed the Montelleone girl and Signora Kalczeska. Two: he’s in Florence now. And no,’ Babinellio turns to Pallioti, ‘I see no reason to believe he’ll stop.’
Babinellio leans back in his chair, his fingers laced across his stomach. ‘On the contrary,’ he says, ‘in cases like this, the hunger feeds itself. You’ll notice the intervals are getting closer. The staging becoming more dramatic.’
‘He’s getting bolder.’
‘Possibly,’ Babinellio says. ‘Or more terrified. He feels possessed by this need. He can’t stop himself, so he may be begging us to stop him.’
‘A cry for help,’ Pallioti’s voice is acidic. ‘That’s very touching. And I would love to stop him, but how do you suggest I do it? I can’t very well warn every woman in Florence.’
‘Why not?’ I ask.
Pallioti ignores this and picks up the calendar. ‘I’m not sure what we do with this.’ He turns to Babinellio. ‘I’m not even sure what it tells us about him that we don’t already know. That he has access to a car or a van, he has access to somewhere to keep the victims he kidnaps, he knows how to buy a carving knife in a shop.’ Pallioti shrugs. ‘With rental agencies and car clubs, apartments, garages and storage units, that could describe virtually anyone in this city. Male or female, for that matter. We don’t even know he’s a man, since he doesn’t rape.’
‘Well,’ Babinellio says, ‘the vast majority of sexually ritualistic crimes are, like it or not, committed by white males. Especially when the victims are white, which these were. And make no mistake about it,’ he adds, ‘although he doesn’t rape them, these killings are sexual. And ritualistic. And they’re not random. So, chances are good that he’s a white male, and we know he’s organized, a planner. He may be reassured by structured situations, plans. They’ll be part of the ritual for him. For instance, he’ll pick out the presents for his victims, probably far in advance. The gifts are chosen very carefully. They’re loving.’
Babinellio leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You have to understand,’ he says, ‘that the hunting, the planning, it’s like a courtship for him. Foreplay, for the rest of us: the building up to the act of penetration, the orgasm, which is the killing itself. That doesn’t mean, incidentally,’ he adds, ‘that he sleeps with women. He could even be gay. But more likely he’s dysfunctional. And ritual is important to him. Very. In all probability, he’s a Catholic.’
At this, Pierangelo actually laughs and Pallioti smiles, as if it’s a very bad joke.
‘Everyone in this city is Catholic,’ Pallioti points out. ‘Except for the Jews and about five Muslims. Does it mean he’s a priest? A monk? A fanatic? A penitent? Where do I look?’
Babinellio regards him for a moment. Then he leans over, takes Pallioti’s package of Nazionale and lights one for himself. ‘He’s certainly a fanatic,’ he says slowly. ‘But a priest or a monk? Maybe. Not necessarily. He may no longer even be a practising Catholic. But he was at some point. That’s what’s important. And when he was, it meant a lot to him. It’s possible,’ he adds, ‘maybe even probable, that he feels that he’s doing the women a favour. After all, martyrdom is glory.’
Babinellio leans back in his chair, the tip of his cigarette glowing red as he draws the smoke down into his lungs. ‘He loves them,’ he says. ‘He hates them. He’s trying to save them. In that, he’s much like the rest of us. But for him, the sadism, the ritual, it’s part of his hatred. And his love. It’s his “signature.”’ He raises his hands and makes little quotation marks around the word. ‘He’s acting out the same brutality again and again. In all probability he’s fucking the same woman again and again. It’s his need to degrade her. To punish her. Constantly, until he’s satisfied.’ Babinellio shrugs and holds up his small round hands. ‘Which,’ he adds, ‘may be never.’
There’s a silence around the table while each of us contemplates this idea. From the house I can hear someone calling the children. It’s a man’s voice. The drumming stops. And starts again.
‘He’s interested in you,’ Babinellio says suddenly, turning to me. ‘He’s killed two people close to you. It’s possible that he’s showing off for you. Trying to impress you.’ Pierangelo reaches for my hand.
‘So I know him?’ I ask.
Babinellio shrugs. ‘Not necessarily.’ He smiles. ‘But in his mind, anyways, he certainly knows you. That doesn’t mean the situation is reciprocal. You may never even have met him.’
I have a cold, shrinking feeling inside as if my stomach is withering. Pallioti shakes his head.
‘That doesn’t get us anywhere,’ he says. ‘It still means it could be anyone. Some nut who saw Signora Warren on the street, or in a piazza, or in a bar. He could even have read about her in the paper when she was attacked. There was a lot of coverage. It doesn’t narrow the field enough.’ He smiles at me. I think he’s trying to be reassuring, but it isn’t working.
‘We can’t attack it that way,’ he says. ‘What we have to do is anticipate him. And to do that we still need to know what connects these women. Something will. Something always does.’
Pallioti reaches into his briefcase, pulls out a folder
and deals a set of eight-by-ten pictures across the table.
‘Eleanora Darnelli. Benedetta Lucchese. Caterina Fusarno. Ginevra Montelleone. Anthea “Billy” Kalczeska.’ He slaps their photos down like a dealer in a casino. ‘Signora Warren’s right,’ he says, ‘the dates, the desire to martyr, is significant in what it tells us about him. But in terms of catching him, why he picks his victims is even more significant. We’ve checked schools, professions, neighbourhoods, hair colours. Even horoscopes. So, any ideas, anyone?’
These aren’t crime-scene pictures, and we reach for them, all of us except Pallioti, secretly fascinated, I think, eager to look behind the curtain and catch a glimpse of who these women were in the days before they were made special by a serial killer. I realize that I’ve never seen a picture of Benedetta alive as an adult, or of Caterina Fusarno alive at all, and it occurs to me that these are like photos of the famous and the infamous as kids, the ones you study in magazines, looking for a hint, a clue, that they had any idea of what they would one day become
Francesca Giusti is looking at the portrait of Ginevra Montelleone, the same one that was in the bar. Pain flashes across her face. Ginevra looks so like her, they could be mother and daughter. I reach for a photo of Eleanora and find that Gabriel Fabbiacelli is as good as I thought he was: she looks exactly like his painting of her in the fresco. Except in this picture, she’s wearing her nun’s habit, not angel’s robes.
Eleanora stands on what looks like a playground, smiling into the camera, one child hanging on her hand, another peeking around the edge of her skirt. The brown serge of her nun’s habit looks hot in what is obviously summer sun, and she’s hitched it up in the work apron she wears so it hangs at mid-length. I wonder how stifling it must be to pass the whole summer in black stockings and black lace-up shoes. Shoes so highly polished they shine. Like patent leather.
Without thinking, I snatch the photograph of Benedetta.
Pallioti is talking, saying something to Francesca Giusti about the number of men he can make available. His words blur and mix with the buzzing of the bees in the lavender pot and the tattoo of the drum set. The photograph in my hand is in colour. Benedetta sits on a park bench in her nurse’s uniform, one arm draped along the back, the pretty blue watch she’s wearing setting off the tan on her arm.
‘He’s been in the apartment.’
The talking at the table stops. ‘He’s been in the apartment!’ I stand up, the chair behind me almost tipping over.
Pallioti gets to his feet. ‘Signora?’
Pierangelo stands up too. He reaches out, but I duck away. I don’t want anyone to touch me.
‘He’s been in the apartment,’ I say again, louder this time. ‘That shoe, the one he took from Eleanora Darnelli, it’s in the bottom of Billy’s closet. And she found black nail polish in the bathroom. She thought it was mine. But it was Caterina’s. Caterina Fusarno was wearing it when she died, it must have been in her bag. And Benedetta Lucchese’s watch. It has a B and a date, 1992, I think, engraved on the back, doesn’t it?’
I don’t even have to see Pallioti nod.
‘It’s on Billy’s bureau. In her jewellery box. I thought she didn’t wear it because she was being difficult, but she probably didn’t even know it was there.’
I sit down, suddenly, groping for the chair. ‘He’s been coming in the whole time.’
Pieces of the puzzle are falling around me like hailstones, clattering out of the sky and locking into place. The picture grows and grows, seeping like a stain across the weeks we spent in the apartment.
‘My keys were missing. I lose keys. He must have got hold of them, somehow, and had them copied. Then he came in and out. He did it all the time.’ I close my eyes and see my room, my lipsticks and eye shadow all messed up. I thought it was Billy. But it wasn’t. He sprayed my perfume. He took my toothbrush.
‘That’s how he got my cell number.’ I feel sick. ‘He left things and he took things. I think he made designs on the floor, with postcards. It wasn’t Billy outside on the landing, last Thursday. It was him.’
I feel the door panel against my cheek. Hear my own whisper in the dark.
‘I smelled him. He used my perfume. He was right on the other side of the door.’
My skin starts to crawl. Rats’ whiskers tickling my scars. I see my room, Signora Bardino’s pretty pink counterpane, and the indent, the unmistakable shape of a head on the pillow.
‘Oh God,’ I wail, ‘he was on my bed! He lay on my bed!’ And the drumming stops abruptly.
In the next few minutes, Pallioti makes a series of phone calls while Francesca Giusti takes me into the house to use the bathroom and wash my face. She runs ice-cold water and hands me a pink fluffy towel. When she walks back with me across the lawn, she puts her arm around my shoulders. By the time we sit down again, Pallioti is pacing back and forth. The rats are still tickling me, but as he speaks I feel calmer.
‘When was the last time you think he was there?’
‘Yesterday.’
All of them stare at me.
‘I saw him,’ I say slowly. I’m way too embarrassed to confess I thought it was Billy’s ghost, but I tell them about the shadow in the kitchen. ‘He left while I was at Sophie’s. Signora Sassinelli,’ I explain. ‘He must have.’ I stop, remembering how close I came to not going up to Sophie’s at all. ‘He took Billy on Wednesday or Thursday.’ I run my hand across my eyes, trying to stop the days sliding together. ‘And he’s come back since,’ I add. ‘That night, he didn’t think I’d be there; I called Billy’s name when I woke up, and stopped him coming in. But he came back yesterday. There were cigarettes,’ I say slowly, remembering the red and lavender bands. ‘He uses my lipstick.’
‘Mary should leave,’ Pierangelo says suddenly. ‘She should leave Florence today.’
There is silence at the table. Babinellio, Francesca Giusti and Pallioti exchange glances.
‘Of course,’ Francesca Giusti says, ‘Signora Thorcroft is entirely free to do as she wishes, and her safety is our primary concern.’
‘Good.’ Pierangelo stands up.
Babinellio looks at me. ‘I think it would be a great shame if you left.’
His small black eyes are almost glittering with excitement. ‘You see,’ he says, ‘it appears I was right. Not only is he interested in you, signora. He wants, even needs, to be close to you.’
‘What Babinellio is saying,’ Pallioti interjects, ‘is that you’re the only certain way we have of catching him.’
The argument goes on for the better part of an hour, and finally it’s me who settles it. Francesca Giusti and Pierangelo both suggest using a policewoman who looks like me, someone in a wig who will come and go from the apartment while the police stake it out. But one look at Babinellio’s face is enough to tell me that he thinks this idea is pointless. And so do I. Because whoever it is who’s doing this, whoever’s plucking women out of Florence to offer them his peculiar brand of salvation, will know. I can sense it. I don’t know who he is. I can’t pick his face out in a crowd, as familiar as it may be. But he’s caressed my clothes. And used my toothbrush. He’s rested his head on my pillow. He’s my secret friend. And he won’t be deceived.
I consider this as I stand outside the door to Signora Bardino’s apartment with Pallioti, two other policemen I don’t know, and a forensics team. It’s just past five a.m. on Monday, and I feel as if I’ve been away for years.
The Sassinellis and Signora Raguzza and Dinya, her companion—in other words everyone who lives in the building—have been eliminated as suspects, so it was decided yesterday that we would come here this morning, immediately after dawn. Coming at night would have meant using lights, which would be unusual because I haven’t been staying here, and appearing during the day would have attracted attention, which Pallioti is desperate to avoid. The only chance for springing this trap is for everything to appear completely normal.
So that’s what I’ve been instructed to do; be normal. All t
he time. Twenty-four seven. The apartment will be watched continuously, and in the meantime I’m supposed to go to lectures, and go to Pierangelo’s and go out to eat, and go shopping. A panic button has been installed in Piero’s apartment, and another one will be put here. My cell phone is still being monitored, and the phones at Pierangelo’s and here are tapped. I won’t know who the police are who are shadowing me, in case I do something to give them away, but I have been assured that somewhere, close by, they’ll be watching, looking for someone, anyone, who is looking at me. I don’t need to worry, Pallioti says. I’ll be fine. Because from now on, I’ll never be alone.
‘Ready?’ He turns the key in the lock, and I nod. All I have to do is walk in, go through the apartment and notice everything: anything I think he might have touched or taken or left behind.
In the dull light, the rooms look dead. The bed counter-panes are smooth, there’s no indent on the pillows. I wear gloves to open my own closet and stare at the empty hangers. In Billy’s room, dust is collecting again on the top of her bureau. In the kitchen, I go through the cupboards, the bottles of oil, the spices and sugar to see if he’s left a little gift there. When I look at the eggshell cups and ugly mugs I wonder which one he drank out of. If he opened packets and stuck his fingers in our food. What did he lick? What did he spit in? Who knows?
After I have finished, the forensic crew seem to take for ever. It’s crucial that the chain of evidence be preserved, so everything has to be photographed and rephotographed, annotated and bagged. There are three of them, and before they go inside, they zip themselves into white paper spacesuits. Pallioti and I only have to wear gloves and little paper bags over our shoes, and we stand in the hall, which seems to be a neutral area, while they brush and swab everything in sight.
Yesterday, Pallioti asked me over and over again when I first noticed things: the nail polish, the shoe, the watch. Papers out of place. Food missing. And I told him everything I could remember. But now, actually standing here, I am no longer certain of anything. The past has been all shaken up; what I thought was our life in this apartment, the days Billy and I spent coming and going that seemed so ordinary, have been put into a kaleidoscope, whirled and rearranged, and nothing I look at is what I thought it was.
The Faces of Angels Page 39