Vita Nuova

by Magdalen Nabb

  He waited, not prompting, not asking. It was a while before she spoke but he held out.

  ‘Danuta says, and Frida says, he never lets his daughters out. That’s why they’re so strange. And that his wife. . . .’

  ‘Yes. I know about his wife. But Paoletti didn’t kill his daughter. He was in hospital.’

  She shrugged, unconvinced. For her, Paoletti was all-powerful. He didn’t need to be there. If he decided you were dead, you were dead. And it was a pretty good assessment of his character, too, as far as controlling his family was concerned. But a murder in his own respectable, churchgoing household? That, never. And yet hadn’t he himself said it to the captain? A professional-style killing, yet something personal . . . and the wrong type of weapon. Cristina and the other girls had good reason to know how dangerous Paoletti was. He had to take her seriously.

  ‘Tell me about what’s happening here. About these children.’

  The children, she told him, were kept separate, but the others knew they were there. They had heard them crying.

  ‘You have never seen them?’

  She held up one finger.

  ‘One of them? Once? Where?’

  ‘Here.’ She touched the bed. ‘Crying.’

  If she really had seen the child, it had been for no more than a second or two. As she arrived to meet a client in the room opposite, she saw the door of this room start to open, so she shot into her room quickly, according to the rules. Never see or be seen. That would have been the end of it, but she could hear crying, so she peeped out. The man was closing the door as he left, so it was a matter of a fleeting glimpse. He was a big man, in his sixties, she thought, florid, bald dome. He pulled the door closed, but the bed, as he could see, was right facing it. She saw the child.

  ‘You’re quite sure it was a child?’

  ‘Sure. A little child.’ She indicated the height. ‘Seven, eight years.’

  She had closed her door then, but went on peeping through the keyhole.

  ‘Maria Grazia went in. The kid stopped crying. That’s all.’

  The marshal sat for a moment in silence, working out how to move. He certainly couldn’t barge up there now with only the word of this girl to go on. He’d need a warrant and he’d need to tread carefully. This was a very high-class operation, with clients to match. He could be on very dangerous ground. He would have liked to get this girl, at least, out of here right now and into a safe house, but that would alert Paoletti. The children would vanish and, as Paoletti had been at pains to demonstrate to him, they would find no usable evidence. Still, Nesti had apparently done everything according to the house rules, so they could hope, for Cristina’s sake, that no alarm bells had sounded.

  ‘How long are you supposed to stay with a client?’

  ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘How do you get here from the club?’

  ‘Mauro drives us. If we have to go back to the club, he waits downstairs. If not, he phones upstairs so she knows what time to expect us up there.’

  ‘None of you drive, then?’

  ‘No. We can’t, because of our papers.’

  ‘What about Danuta and Frida? They work at Paoletti’s house every day. How do they get to Florence?’

  ‘Mauro takes them. He lives in Florence with his mother. He brings them back when he comes to work in the evening. But now he only brings Danuta.’

  Not since the murder, though. Nobody had seen this Mauro, but they had seen two girls leave in the mini on Saturday night. He didn’t insist, not wanting to frighten her off.

  ‘Don’t you ever think of running away?’

  ‘I have no money, no passport. If they catch you, they kill you.’

  ‘Why are you talking to me? Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Because Maddalena said she’d help me. She said she’d lend me some money to start with, but I need my passport. She said Roberto could fix things so that he’d have to let us go.’

  ‘Paoletti?’

  ‘Is it not true?’

  ‘Yes. It’s what we’re trying to do.’

  What else could he tell her? That he was only here because of Paoletti’s daughter, and Nesti just wanted the front page? Now that he knew about the children, it was different; but, even so, Cristina was nobody’s priority and she’d be the one to get caught in the machinery if things went wrong. She was too trusting, too obedient. Paoletti, as Nesti said, knew how to choose them.

  ‘Listen, Cristina, whatever you do, don’t talk to the other girls about Nesti or anything else. You have to be very careful or you’ll get hurt, you know that. But don’t worry about money or your passport. There’s a safe house you can go to where Don Antonino will help you. You’ll be able to go home.’

  ‘I can’t go home! My father will kill me! Don’t send me home!’

  ‘No, no . . . I know you think that now, but you can’t imagine how worried they’ll be and how glad to see you again. . . .’ He stopped as he saw her expression. She was looking at him as though he came from another planet. She didn’t look like a child now. She looked old. He’d lost her. Her face settled behind the expressionless mask it had worn when she unzipped her jeans.

  She repeated, as if to herself, ‘He’ll kill me.’

  ‘No. We’ll help you, do you understand? Something can be done, especially if you help us. We won’t make you go back if you want to stay. Are you sure that’s what you want?’

  ‘There’s this man, Aldo—he always asks for me. He says I have talent and that he could get me on television. He says I’ve got the body for it. He says a lot of the showgirls on the programme are not as pretty as me, and they’re always looking for new ones. He’s somebody important and another girl here got a job on a television show. It was before I came, Anna told me. She got all dressed up and went for an audition. Mauro drove her and he said she’d got the job and wasn’t coming back, and she didn’t either. So, now, when I get out of here—if I’m going to be in the paper like Roberto says—Aldo will see me, won’t he? Do you think I have the body for it? That he wasn’t just saying that to be nice?’

  ‘No, no . . . I’m sure he meant it.’

  It was true. She had the body for it. And she was very pretty, but. . . .

  He looked at the tired little face under its thick makeup, her limp, dark curls. He’d seen her picture in the paper a thousand times, and she was always the victim.

  He looked at his watch. ‘I think you’d better go. Should you muss this bed up a bit, do you think?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘This woman upstairs, doesn’t she check on things?’

  ‘Oh yes, but it doesn’t matter, anyway, because it often happens with old men that they don’t. She’ll see those two glasses, so that’s okay.’ She stood up to go, but hesitated.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can I have a drink of champagne?’

  ‘Of course. You’d better drink from one of these used glasses, though. We can’t leave three around.’

  He filled his own glass for her and she drank it down thirstily

  ‘Thanks. I like it on this floor because there’s always champagne and nobody hurts you.’

  ‘There’s another floor of bedrooms? Apart from where you girls live?’

  ‘That’s just an attic. The floor above this one’s for the weirdos, specials . . . you know . . . I’m off.’

  He went towards the door with her, but she stopped him.

  ‘I shouldn’t be seen with you. It’s the rule. Never see or be seen. Listen, will I really be in the paper, like Roberto said?’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  ‘So you . . . you’ll be coming back?’

  ‘I’ll be coming back, Cristina. I promise you.’

  Why in the world should she believe him, a total stranger, an Italian like Paoletti, a man? There was nothing much else he could say. He let her go. After waiting a moment, he went across and knocked on Nesti’s door. There was no answer, so he went in.

  His sho
es were parked near the bed and no doubt he’d hung his fine clothes in the wardrobe. Very little was visible of Nesti himself in the tumble of silk sheets, a few locks of dark hair on the pillow, a thick hairy forearm and a Rolex. He was snoring quietly.

  ‘Nesti! Wake up. Let’s get out of here.’

  Nesti mumbled something.

  ‘Wake up, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Who’s that . . . ?’

  The marshal pulled the covers off his face and Nesti squinted up at him, mumbling, ‘Oh, it’s you. . . .’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Guarnaccia, go to bed. I’ve phoned my story in . . . it’ll make the late edition. . . . And you owe me one thousand eight—’

  ‘What?’

  But Nesti rolled over and was snoring again. The champagne bottle on the lace-covered bedside table was empty and, apart from the two glasses beside it, there was a balloon glass with the remains of some brandy. The marshal went back to his own room.

  It was the sensible thing, after all. The rooms were paid for, it was nearly half past four, and he’d drunk a glass or two himself during the long night. He undressed and got into the four-poster. Lying there, propped on the big feather pillows, he could see out of the corner of his eye the lacey frills billowing round his head. He threw one of the pillows down to the end of the bed and lay flatter. He still felt ridiculous. Sometimes they dressed elephants in the circus in ballet frocks. Poor beasts. Did animals feel embarrassment? This bed. . . .

  It often happens with old men, Cristina had said. Was that just a general remark? To explain why there was no need to worry about the bed? Or did she really think that he hadn’t touched her because he was too old to . . . ? No, no. She’d said ‘Like Roberto.’ No. Of course, he and Nesti must be pretty much the same age. All the customers here probably were. She had described a florid man with a bald dome . . . and a crying child.

  He couldn’t imagine falling asleep here, thinking of the floor above—were there any ‘weirdos’ up there now? If there were, no sound of their goings-on reached him. The ceiling was painted with clouds and, around the chandelier, pink cherubs held flowers and waved blue and gold ribbons. And above the ‘weirdo’ floor, in an attic, two children. Did they know each other? Comfort each other? Most probably they’d been kidnapped.

  He should try to sleep, because tomorrow was bound to be a long and difficult day. He switched the flower-shaped bedside lamp off and lay there, rigid, in the dark.

  An hour or so later, he was still lying there, trying to pretend he was getting to sleep. This place might not be registered as a hotel, but it had hotel noises. Things that clicked on and off and hummed. Air conditioning, maybe. He hated air conditioning. It damaged your sinuses, and if you got the draught of it on your shoulder, you could end up in serious pain. He listened to the blasted thing for a while, getting more and more annoyed, and, in the end, switched the light on and got up to look for the controls. It was definitely air conditioning because, he realized, now, it was far too cold in the room. Even the silky soft carpet was ice-cold under his feet. He searched and searched but found no controls, Of course, they’d have hidden the damn things, like they’d hidden the fridge, so as not to spoil the effect. Probably had ribbons stuck all over them or a lace frill round them. Why the devil weren’t they near the door like the light switch? Things should be in their proper place.

  ‘And that includes me, and I shouldn’t be here!’

  He did find the vent, at least, a cold blast coming out from under a half-moon table with fluted legs and brass decorations, and a fat lot of good it did him since there was no way of shutting it. He tried the bathroom. Nothing. He was frozen. Better get back in bed, and pull the bedclothes up round his shoulders. Could have done with a sweater. He switched the light off and, after five minutes or so, still frozen, switched it on again.

  ‘Damn!’ He got up to go to the bathroom. That was it. He made a decision.

  ‘Nesti can do as he likes. I’m going.’ He washed, dabbed a lacey towel at his dark growth of beard, scowling into the mirror, and went back in the bedroom to dress. It was twenty to six.

  The night sky was just fading to grey and the damp air smelled of grass and pines. He found the spare ground where they’d left their cars. There were two others there, big, hunched, and dark. A fine shroud of morning mist gave them a ghostly, even sinister, air. The custodian was holed up in a wooden kiosk, drinking something from a plastic cup. Coffee from a flask, maybe. The marshal felt an urgent need for a coffee himself, but his need to get away from this place was stronger. His car, too, had a mist of tiny droplets on it. He nodded at the custodian as he drove past, but the man only stared at him.

  Once on the motorway heading for Florence, he felt a little better. It was getting light and his eyes were scratchy with tiredness. There was no traffic and the fields on either side were white. The ring roads around Florence were still empty and smelled of trees rather than exhaust fumes. He entered the city by the Porta Romana and he was home. Coffee first, then a shave and a shower and he would start writing a report. He had to be so careful. A wrong move and those children would vanish. Go slowly, pay attention, one detail at a time.

  Standing in his towelling robe in front of the washing machine in the bathroom, he contemplated two pairs of stained trousers lying on top of it. It was a fairly new washing machine, and he looked at all its rows of dials and lights and switches, frowning. In the old days when he had done his own laundry, all you did, as far as he could remember, was to stuff the washing in and switch it on. This thing looked like the cockpit of an aeroplane. After struggling for a while with cycles and loads and temperatures, spin cycle, air fluff, easy ironing, and wash and wear, he considered taking the trousers to be dry-cleaned. But no, he’d never find the time and then they’d be left for Teresa to deal with. So he stuffed them in with what was there already and switched on. Teresa had probably left it set on something suitable. He waited until a light came on. It seemed to be filling up. Then he noticed a blue plastic bubble sitting where the trousers had been. Teresa had mentioned that, but what . . . detergent. You put the detergent in that, these days. He couldn’t, not now. The thing was half full of water. Well, it would all get a good rinsing, and if it didn’t come clean he’d put the soap in and run it again. It was starting to trundle round. Good. One detail at a time. Be careful. He placed the blue plastic bubble neatly on the shelf above the washer, next to the detergent. There was a sheet of paper hanging there, taped to the edge of the shelf. She’d said something about that. He examined it. It was a photocopy, presumably of a page of instructions about all the cycles and so on. And there were some handwritten notes done with a red felt-tip. ‘Blue uniform shirts/coloured T-shirts socks, etc.’ ‘White uniform shirts/underwear.’ Well. . . .

  He got into uniform and went to his office.

  It was still early to call the prosecutor, but he settled at his desk and made a few notes about what he needed to tell him. He needed two search warrants, for a start, one for Paoletti’s villa here in Florence—unless he produced the gun or guns voluntarily—and one for the ‘hotel.’ But would the prosecutor—despite all his smiles and his ‘your expertise’ and his ‘you and I know’—accept that there were grounds for either, considering he only had the word of a prostitute to go on? It needed backing up, and the only person who might be able to back it up. . . .

  ‘Don’t tell me that he doesn’t know everything that goes on here and turns a blind eye.’

  He had to admit that Nesti was probably right. He was the only person. He might not know about the children, but he had to know about the ‘hotel.’ He’d said it was all above-board, but what else had he said? Something had been wrong in that conversation, something that had made him inclined to believe Nesti, but what was it? They had to have this out. He got up, checked his keys, and left the office. Going down the stairs, something that had been buried deep in his mind surfaced. It had been too soon. That was what it
was. The local marshal had called him no more than fifteen minutes after the prosecutor, saying he’d been round there and done some checking, had that long conversation with the manager. He couldn’t have done it in the time. He’d lied.

  The motorway was still quiet, and by the time the sun was warming his car he was back in the spa town and following the signs to the carabinieri station.

  The local man, Piazza, was standing in his quarters, in uniform, with a cup of coffee in his hand and a little girl with waist-length brown hair clinging to his legs.

  ‘Please, Dad! Pleeease!’

  ‘Your mum will do it for you. I have to get to work— and look, there’s the marshal here waiting to see me.’

  ‘He can see you—and, Dad, Mum never blows them up properly like you. They’re always all soggy!’

  ‘All right, but I’ll do it this afternoon when we get to the pool. You don’t need them now.’

  ‘I do! I do need them now. I want to put them on now! I want to!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Guarnaccia. . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Run and get them, then—and be quick! Her water wings. She’s so thrilled with them, she wants to wear them all day. She’ll not be satisfied until she’s punctured them.’

  The little girl scampered back with her pink and green water wings, and when they were inflated and put on she hugged her dad, smiled at the marshal, and galloped, shrieking, out of the room.

  ‘An only child?’

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘Two boys.’

  ‘Let’s go to my office—d’you want a drop of coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Face to face across a desk, they sized each other up. Piazza, the marshal judged, was quite a bit younger than himself and this was probably his first command. His expression was open and lively, and he seemed ready to laugh at the first excuse offered. Even so, you could see he was a bit puzzled by this visit and, whether or not he had lied about checking out The Emperor, any idea that Paoletti was paying him off had evaporated before even before they sat down.

  ‘Is it about this murder? Paoletti’s daughter?’