The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  Valenti smiles, rather humourlessly. ‘I too do not believe in coincidence.’

  ‘Have you had any more leads on the case? I gather you let the Syrian go?’

  ‘Samir Ahmadi is free on bail,’ says Valenti. ‘I cannot discuss the case further.’

  This seems to be a dismissal. They stand outside in the street, sweltering after the arctic police station, and discuss their next move.

  ‘You should come home, Ruth,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  Linda bristles, perhaps at the slur on her adopted country. ‘This is a lovely place. I can’t see that Ruth is in any danger.’

  ‘Someone tried to kill you last night!’ Nelson’s voice echoes around the square, and several people shopping at the food market turn to look at them. ‘I’m sorry,’ says Nelson, ‘but you said yourself that it looked deliberate.’

  ‘I just can’t think why anyone would want to hurt us,’ says Linda. ‘I think it was just some teenage joyrider, maybe drunk or on drugs.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Ruth. She doesn’t want to give Nelson the chance to boss her around, but she is feeling rather less sanguine than Linda. She remembers the odd, highly charged atmosphere at the funeral; Anna letting herself out of the flat; Elsa’s strange behaviour last night.

  ‘I’m going back next Wednesday,’ she says. ‘That’s not long. I’m sure we’ll be all right.’

  *

  Alanine, arginine, asparagine . . . what comes next? It’s only three years since uni, but six years since A level biology, a lifetime ago. But Laura has always listed the amino acids when she wants to calm herself down. The trouble is, forgetting them makes her feel stressed. Aspartic acid, cysteine, glutamine . . .

  ‘What’s taking them so long?’ says her mother. ‘It must be my turn soon.’

  They are sitting in the waiting area – pink walls, seascapes, plastic flowers – waiting for Michelle’s scan. Ever other woman seems to have a husband or partner in attendance and Laura feels very conscious of being out of place. She’s both too old and too young for this place. Then again, maybe people think she’s the one having the scan. Mum doesn’t look very pregnant yet, and she’s forty-six, Laura’s twenty-four, lots of women have babies at her age. Unconsciously Laura pats her concave stomach in the gap between crop top and jeans. She can’t imagine ever being pregnant. Going to the gym again has made her more body-conscious; every time she eats something she imagines it magnified inside her, waiting to be zapped by more exercise. Her parents have no idea about those years when every mouthful was a cosmic battle between good and evil. ‘You’re too skinny,’ her dad always says, but he says it in a rather proud way. She knows he’d be more concerned if she was overweight. Like Ruth. Don’t think about Ruth. Glutamine, glutamic acid, glycine . . .

  ‘I think you’re next,’ she says to her mother. ‘After the woman with red hair.’

  ‘You will come in with me, won’t you?’ says Michelle.

  ‘Of course,’ says Laura. ‘I’m looking forward it.’

  That’s her line and she’s sticking with it. ‘We’ve got to support Mum,’ she’d said to Rebecca during their regular FaceTime chat last night. ‘She’s got support,’ Rebecca had said, lounging on her bed in Brighton, ‘she’s got Dad.’ Laura had reminded her that he was still in Italy, told her that he’d been caught up in a murder investigation. Rebecca had laughed – ‘good old Dad’ – and taken a swig of coke. Laura wanted to tell her what the drink was doing to her insides, much less her calorie count, but she knew this would not be a good idea. Rebecca has none of her body issues – no issues of any kind it seems, sails through life doing the minimal amount of work, making friends and forgetting them, getting angry about the small stuff but letting the big terrors (the ice caps melting, their parents’ marriage) wash over her.

  She doesn’t know why she’s so worried about her parents. She had a terrible suspicion a few months ago when Dad turned up with Ruth’s daughter Kate, saying that he was looking after her for the afternoon. There was something about the way Dad had been with the little girl, something solicitous and protective, that had sent her synapses buzzing. Kate was gorgeous, dark like Rebecca, funny and cheeky. Could she be Dad’s daughter? He’s always working with this Ruth woman. But then, Laura’s met Ruth, and surely no one who was married to Mum would look twice at someone so overweight and untidy. Laura has always been so proud of her elegant mother, a woman much admired by all her friends. And now Mum’s having a baby and Dad seems pleased about it, although worrying all the time like he usually does. It’s just . . . why did Dad disappear to Italy like that? He was worried about Ruth, Mum said, but doesn’t Ruth have her own friends and family to worry about her? ‘I look after my own,’ Dad always says, and they tease him for sounding like the Godfather. But now he seems to be looking after Ruth and Kate and he’s not coming home for the scan. Histidine, isoleucine, leucine . . .

  A nurse appears with a clipboard. ‘Michelle Nelson.’

  ‘We’re on, Mum.’

  *

  Linda says that she wants to shop at the market, so Nelson and Ruth go to a café for coffee and cornetti (an Italian form of croissant). Ruth feels rather awkward with Nelson today. She had steeled herself to say goodbye last night, but now here they are again, back in their usual positions: Nelson protective and bossy, Ruth defensive and stubborn. She also knows that Nelson will be thinking about Michelle and the scan. She knows it’s not fair, but she feels slightly resentful that Nelson was not present for any of her antenatal visits. He wasn’t even there for the birth. Cathbad had been with her. She still remembers the midwives staring at his robes – he had come from a Halloween party.

  ‘So you’re going back tomorrow,’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘I managed to book the flights first thing this morning.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s a silence. Ruth watches Linda making her way through the market, chatting with people, bargaining with the stallholders. What must it be like to move to another country? Would you always feel an outsider, as Samir obviously does? Linda seems completely at home, but then she has an Italian husband and Italian children.

  ‘I’ll come round today and say goodbye to Katie,’ says Nelson, and she can hear from his voice that he’s trying to be conciliatory. Responding in kind, she doesn’t correct him about the name.

  ‘Why don’t you come for supper?’ says Ruth. ‘I’ll make some pasta. It won’t be as good as Linda’s though. I’d better ask her too, hadn’t I?’

  But when Linda returns with a basket full of mysterious food, she says that she and Paolo have plans tonight. Ruth can’t help feeling slightly relieved.

  *

  Michelle has been feeling tense all morning. She knows that the scan won’t tell her who the father is, but she can’t help imagining that someone – the radiographer, or Laura – will know that there’s some sort of complication. In addition, she is worried that there will be a real, i.e. medical, problem. She is old to be having a baby. They’ve had the screening for Down’s but there are lots of other conditions that she has discovered through long nights googling ‘geriatric pregnancy’. As long as it’s healthy – that’s the mantra she has been repeating to herself all morning. Laura keeps saying that everything will be OK, but she’s only a child herself, really, what does she know? She has been wonderful though. Michelle takes her daughter’s hand as they walk towards the radiography room.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ she tells her.

  ‘Of course it will,’ says Laura.

  As long as they both believe that they are reassuring each other, everything will be OK.

  The radiographer rubs some gel on Michelle’s stomach and apologises for her cold hands.

  ‘Cold hands, warm heart,’ says Michelle.

  ‘So they say,’ says the radiographer, going back to her machine.

  Michelle twists her head and half smiles, half grimaces at Laura. Laura smiles back
but she’s looking very nervous. The last time Michelle saw that look was when she was driving Laura into school to collect her A level results. But they had been fine; Laura is a clever girl. This will be fine too. She arranges her face into a cheerful shape.

  ‘Here we go.’ The radiographer is moving her stethoscope thing over Michelle’s stomach. The screen fills with cloudy white shapes, the darkness between them pulsating in an odd, animal way. Michelle props herself up to look. She’s trying to remember from her other pregnancies, but this looks good. There’s the heart. Is that an arm or a leg?

  ‘There’s your baby,’ says the radiographer. ‘A healthy size.’

  Michelle breathes again. Laura squeezes her hand.

  ‘There’s the heart,’ says the radiography, pointing. ‘And an arm, leg, a bit of the head. Ah, now there’s a good angle. Do you want to know the sex?’

  Michelle opens her mouth to say, ‘No, all we want is a healthy baby,’ but instead says, very loudly and decisively, ‘Yes please.’

  The radiographer laughs. ‘Well, it’s early days but there’s not much doubt. It’s a boy.’

  Michelle leans back on her paper pillows. She finds that she’s crying. A boy. Harry will be pleased. She knows that he secretly wants a son. But so does Tim. What a mess.

  ‘A boy, Mum,’ Laura is saying. ‘It’ll be fun to have a boy. God, I bet he’ll be just like Dad.’

  The radiographer passes Michelle a box of Kleenex which is conveniently to hand. She doesn’t like to think of other occasions when women have cried in this room.

  ‘The baby’s fine,’ says Laura, stroking her mother’s hair. ‘That’s the main thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Michelle. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Chapter 28

  The first person Ruth sees when she gets back to Castello degli Angeli is Angelo. He is standing looking over the half-demolished wall of the church. Marta is with him. Don Tomaso has not been buried in the graveyard. Perhaps the ground isn’t consecrated any more. His body has been taken to the cemetery in Arpino and the funeral flowers have all gone with him. The square is now almost as it was when Ruth first saw it, apart from the broken wall and the police tape around the graveyard.

  ‘Have you got any news on the investigation?’ says Angelo, dispensing with the usual niceties – rather, thinks Ruth, as Nelson often fails to say goodbye or thank you. ‘Is Valenti making any attempt to solve the murder?’

  ‘Samir has been released,’ says Ruth.

  ‘I know,’ says Angelo. ‘That’s good news. I saw him at the funeral. Were you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth, feeling slightly guilty. ‘But I left a bit early.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ says Angelo. ‘All that mumbo jumbo. “I am the resurrection and the life.” It sticks in my throat.’

  ‘Some of us believe it,’ says Marta. Ruth admires her for standing up to her professor, even if she doesn’t share her faith.

  ‘I know,’ says Angelo. He doesn’t apologise though.

  ‘Your mother was looking for you yesterday,’ says Ruth. ‘Did she find you?’

  ‘She’s always looking for me,’ says Angelo. ‘Yes, she caught up with me. She’s very upset about all this. She and Don Tomaso were old friends, like brother and sister.’

  ‘She told me,’ said Ruth. She hesitates, wondering if she can ask more about Elsa and her slightly strange behaviour yesterday. As she stands there, irresolute, she hears a car driving across the cobbles behind her.

  ‘It’s Roberto,’ says Marta. ‘I must go. Will you keep me informed about the bones, Professore?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Angelo. ‘Have fun.’

  Marta colours but does not reply. She nods at Ruth and sprints across the square. Ruth watches her getting into Roberto’s Fiat.

  ‘I think they’re dating,’ says Angelo. ‘That’s a very American word. Dating.’

  ‘It’s catching on in England too,’ says Ruth. ‘I think it means something different from “going out”.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo, ‘friendship with benefits. There’s a lot to be said for it.’

  He’s smiling at her. Ruth prays that she’s not going red. ‘Can I see the bones?’ she says, in what she hopes is a businesslike way. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to excavate?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Angelo. ‘This is a murder scene now. The scene of the crime people were here all day yesterday. Even during the funeral.’

  Ruth sees that a white tent has been erected over the back door of the church. She knows only too well how important this is. This is the way the murderer must have walked. The police will have combed every millimetre looking for clues.

  Angelo, though, has ducked under the tape and is holding it up for her.

  ‘Do you think it’s all right?’ she says.

  ‘Sure,’ says Angelo. ‘No police here today.’ Which isn’t quite what she is asking.

  You can almost see the complete skeleton now, the earth showing through the ribcage. Ruth can see that it has been professionally exposed and can imagine how frustrating it is for Angelo not to be able to excavate the bones, one by one, number them, chart them and take them to the lab.

  ‘Do you still think that this is Marta’s great-grandfather?’

  ‘Giorgio? Yes, I’m almost certain. He was missing the two fingers of one hand, you see. A boar bit them off. He kept the boar’s tooth as a souvenir, wore it round his neck. My grandfather always used to tell that story.’

  Ruth can see the bones quite clearly, almost as if the hand has been positioned to show the missing digits.

  ‘It must be emotional for Marta,’ she says. ‘She was saying that her mother wants to give her great-grandfather, her mother’s grandfather, a proper funeral.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo. ‘I think that’s important to Anna.’

  ‘Angelo,’ says Ruth, ‘is there any reason why Anna would have a key to your grandfather’s apartment?’

  Angelo, who has been squatting down, looking into the grave, straightens up and looks at her. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘When I came back early from the funeral I saw her letting herself out of the apartment. At least, I think it was her. She looked very like Marta.’

  Angelo shrugs. ‘I suppose Nonno must have given her a key. They were neighbours, after all.’ But Ruth thinks that he looks troubled, all the same.

  *

  Laura drives them home. She is conscious of going very carefully, signalling miles in advance, as if she’s taking her driving test again, leaving acres of space between her car and the one in front. Only a fool breaks the two-second rule. This is more like the half-hour rule. It’s as if the new sibling is already backseat driving. Typical man. After her tears in the hospital, Mum is now almost hysterically happy, babbling on painting the baby’s room blue and taking it to football matches. Steady on, Mum, Laura wants to say. Just because it’s a boy, it doesn’t mean it’s going to be Wayne Rooney. He might be gay or bi or non-binary, or he might simply prefer dolls to footballs. Laura had been rather keen on football herself in primary school in Blackpool, but when she got to the girls’ school in Lynn, the only sports on offer were netball and hockey. What if the boy grows up and decides that he wants to transition to be a girl? She can’t imagine either of her parents coping well with such a situation. Mum has lots of gay friends, but in terms of gender politics, she’s stuck in the Dark Ages. And as for Dad . . .

  ‘What about names?’ she says, cutting into a rambling lecture about the Boy Scouts and the benefits of getting muddy. ‘Have you thought of boys’ names? Please don’t let it be Jimmy.’

  ‘I like Lucas,’ says Michelle, ‘or Scott.’

  ‘They sound like Radio 2 DJs,’ says Laura. ‘Rebecca and I have got really traditional names. What about James or Henry? William? George? Timothy?’

  ‘Timothy is nice,’ says Michelle. She has gone quiet again, staring out of the window. Laura takes a wide, slow turn into the cul-de-sac. It’s a nice day and there
are children playing in some of the front gardens; old Mr Bates is mowing his lawn. She parks carefully in the drive. Bruno is barking inside the house. That might be because he’s just heard them arrive, but there’s something hoarse and urgent about the sound that makes Laura think that he’s been barking a long time.

  ‘We’ll have to take him for a walk,’ says Michelle.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Laura.

  But when she puts Bruno’s lead on, he doesn’t pull to get to the park and the open country – he drags her round to the back garden and sniffs all along the boundaries, tail down, serious, like the police dog he almost was.

  ‘Come on, Bruno,’ says Laura. ‘Walkies.’

  But Bruno stays staring at the wall at the bottom of the garden, head to one side. As if he’s thinking.

  *

  Back in the apartment, Ruth assembles the food she has bought for tonight. It will be a version of spaghetti bolognese, even though Linda told her than Italians only use tagliatelle with bolognese sauce. Shona and Graziano have taken the children to the swimming pool, leaving Ruth to get on with preparing supper. It’s all in the preparation, according to Linda. Instead, Ruth gets out her phone and calls her father.

  He takes a long time to come to the phone, during which time Ruth has lived through many scenarios (he has had a stroke and is lying helpless on the floor, he’s dead in bed beside the picture of her mum, he’s fast asleep watching Cash in the Attic). It turns out, though, that Arthur was in his garden, a jealously guarded strip of south London grass with flower beds at the sides and a greenhouse at the bottom.

  ‘I’ve got such a crop of tomatoes this year,’ he says.

  ‘That’s nice, Dad. Don’t do too much though.’

  ‘I just potter. Ade from the church comes to mow the lawn.’

  Much as she recoils from the beliefs of her parents’ evangelical church, Ruth has to admit that fellow worshippers have been very good to her father since her mother’s death. They help with shopping and gardening; they cook him Sunday lunch. And the fact that many of them, including Adedayo, are black does much to stifle her father’s Daily Mail-esque views.