by David Hewson
‘Do whatever you think is necessary,’ Falcone said, then glanced at Costa. ‘We need to find the brother.’
‘I can understand that,’ Costa agreed.
‘Seeing that you managed to let him go last night . . .’
‘Managed? He had a gun on me. I tried to call you, Leo.’
‘You might have left a message. Since you didn’t see fit to tell any of us you were meeting him . . .’
‘It was one of his conditions!’ Costa felt embarrassed, on shaky ground. He shouldn’t have agreed to the meeting without telling someone, even if he was off duty, on holiday, at something of a loose end. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I should have told you. It was a long day. I was tired. Confused.’ He recalled the brief meeting with Agata and the way she disappeared with her slick boss inside his silver Alfa Romeo. ‘Not thinking straight.’
Falcone allowed himself the briefest of smiles then patted him on the shoulder.
‘Well, now you can make amends. The holiday’s over, sovrintendente. Consider yourself back on duty. It seems to me we have a suspect.’
Costa sighed.
‘Why would Robert Gabriel bring me here in that case? He was trying to tell me something.’ He glanced at the bed, which was now being pored over by men and women in white suits. ‘He wanted to say this was nothing to do with them. His father’s death too. Joanne Van Doren gave them a home when Santacroce kicked them out. She was Mina’s friend.’
Peroni was at the door, watching, listening, expressionless.
‘She wasn’t the mother’s friend from what I saw,’ he said. ‘Someone needs to tell the Gabriels this has happened, by the way. Someone sympathetic.’
Falcone brightened.
‘Good idea. Go back to the Questura and get what you can out of narcotics about Robert Gabriel. Then break the news about this to his mother and sister. The two of you. See what their reaction is. I want the brother.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Costa murmured. He still couldn’t reconcile what he was seeing in this strange subterranean lair with the family who’d been the only people to live there, several floors above. ‘What is this place?’
‘Porn palace,’ Silvio Di Capua announced cheerily. ‘A very well-appointed one too, I’d say. The darkroom out the back is fully functioning and ready to go. Used very recently. Popular place. Look.’ The young pathologist got them to bend down and peer at the bed, showing them the promising signs – stains, traces of hair, possible tissue. ‘It’s like Christmas down there.’
‘When will you know whose it is?’ Falcone demanded.
‘A day. Two maybe. Matching it, well . . . We’ve got a couple of bodies we can check. When it comes to the living, that’s down to you.’
‘Precisely,’ Teresa added with a smile. ‘Now, unless you have some other questions, I’d be grateful if you could get out of the way.’
Falcone instructed some of the other officers to pressure narcotics about Robert Gabriel’s contacts. Teresa issued a series of orders to her own people then looked up at the ceiling and said, ‘This is a big place, Leo. We’re going to need a few days to go through every floor. Can you find us some help?’
He stared at her. She shrugged and said, ‘OK. It’s that time of year.’
In the far corner of the room, near some metal filing cabinets, someone squealed with glee. They all looked. Costa recognized one of the young work-experience trainees, the same girl who’d been alone on duty at the weekend when the dead Malise Gabriel was taken into the morgue and tagged as a simple accident victim.
She was plump with a ponytail and a bright, happy face.
‘Look what I found in the cupboard!’ she said, full of juvenile pride.
In her gloved hands was a large old-fashioned camera, black and box-like, the type with a pop-up viewfinder. Unusual, which was why she was playing with it in an injudicious way, flicking up the top, turning the big eye of the lens.
Di Capua wandered over, making admiring noises on the way.
‘Oh . . . my . . . God,’ he sighed. ‘Pornographers with taste. How often do you see that?’
‘What is it, Silvio?’ Teresa asked. Then, somewhat testily, ‘Maria, will you kindly stop messing with the thing like that?’
The trainee seemed fascinated by the object, as if it had come from another age. In a sense, Costa thought, it had. He hadn’t seen anything like it in years.
‘Hassy 503,’ Di Capua crooned, holding out his hand. ‘Hassel-blad to you. Pentaprism with a one-twenty back. The Americans used adapted versions of this to take pictures on moon-shots, for pity’s sake. Though if I’m honest . . .’ He stopped and scratched his bald head. ‘I’d imagine it’s pretty damned perfect for a porn studio too. And . . .’
Costa caught a glimpse of something yellow on the back. A memory returned.
‘It’s got film inside,’ he said.
Silvio Di Capua looked at him and grinned.
‘Film! I love film!’
The girl holding the Hasselblad pressed a couple of buttons. The back came off. Then, as Costa watched, she somehow managed to unlatch the cover and he caught a glimpse of dull grey emulsion.
‘Remind me,’ she said, looking a little puzzled. ‘Film?’
Age could prove a terrible divide on occasion. A good half of the people in the room were already staring in horror at the brief length of exposed stock in the Hasselblad, open to the bright light of the floods that was already wiping away any image it might once have held. The rest looked baffled, as if trying to retrieve some distant memory of a time when photographs didn’t appear instantly on the back of a little digital screen.
Di Capua was on her in a flash, snatching away the camera back with a ferocity that left the trainee shocked and reeling, then fumbling it back onto the body as best he could.
‘Did I do something bad?’ she asked, suddenly close to tears.
‘Again,’ Di Capua snapped. ‘Get in there.’
He pointed to the door in the corner.
‘The dark place?’ she asked.
‘The dark place,’ he agreed, half-pushing her ahead of him.
Costa put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him, and asked, ‘How much is a camera like that worth, Silvio?’
The young pathologist paused for a moment, thinking, turning the camera round and round in his gloved fingers.
‘Late eighties, 503CW. Eighty-millimetre planar lens.’ A closer look, an admiring glance. ‘No scratches. Not a sign of fungus.’ He winced. ‘You’ve got to be looking at a thousand euros. You could pay that new for the lens alone. This thing’s mint. Doesn’t look as if it’s ever set foot outside this place.’
‘Thanks.’ Costa looked at Falcone and knew the inspector had to be thinking the same thing. A piece of equipment like this was surely beyond the reach of Malise Gabriel.
‘Men and their toys,’ Teresa said. ‘They can be starving and their families near destitute. But if something’s shiny and smells of sex . . .’
TWO
Narcotics owned most of the west wing on the third floor of the Questura, a chaotic, rambling network of rooms where uniforms were rare and it was often difficult to tell the difference between police officers and their clientele. Costa was surprised to see that he already knew one of the two officers assigned to brief them. Rosa Prabakaran looked hollow-eyed and exhausted, thinner than the last time they’d met. She was wearing the kind of clothes, a short skirt, a tight and bright-checked thin sweater, that passed unnoticed in the places where Costa guessed she now worked. Rosa had been part of Falcone’s team until recently. She had served alongside Costa before, most recently during a terrorist attack on the city during a G8 summit. After that case, ambition took her elsewhere, to external courses and then another department altogether, the standard route to promotion. Costa had lost touch with her, which he regretted. Roman-born to an Indian father, she’d cut a solitary and private figure in the Questura. Her colleague was new to Costa, a cocky Venetian of thirty or so called Gino
Riggi, stocky, with the physique of a rugby player, close-cropped dark hair and a stubbly face that smiled often, without humour or sincerity.
Peroni cleared his throat after the four of them sat at a table in the one empty interview room and said, ‘Robert Gabriel. What we need—’
‘Wait,’ the Venetian interrupted, grinning. ‘Let me get this straight. You . . .’ He pointed straight at Peroni. ‘. . . are the agente here. And you . . .’ Costa. ‘. . . are the sovrintendente?’
‘Correct,’ Costa said. ‘But really I’m on holiday. So just answer the questions, will you? I’m a good listener.’
He’d taken a rapid dislike to this man for some reason. Judging from the way Rosa gave Peroni some sideways glances, she felt much the same way.
‘Sir!’ Riggi said with a mock salute. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where can we find him?’ Peroni asked.
Riggi shrugged.
‘No idea. Can’t help you.’
‘Gianni—’ Rosa began.
‘Can’t . . . help . . . you,’ the Venetian cut in, his voice getting louder.
Peroni folded his arms and stared across the table.
‘Got a picture of him?’
‘Never had the reason.’
‘A list of addresses for his friends?’
‘I don’t keep his diary.’
‘Details of who he worked for?’
‘Details?’ Riggi frowned. ‘Not really.’
Rosa said, ‘We think he was tied to one of the Turkish gangs. The Vadisi. The Wolves. Selling. Delivering. He’s just a low-grade street kid. Really, not the kind we’d take much interest in usually. He was active. Pushing a lot. But if you pick them up they won’t tell you a thing. It’s too dangerous. Besides, what’ve we got to offer them? The Turks give them money. Dope. Girls. I think they’ve got some places where they can stay. Maybe . . .’
‘We don’t know where he is,’ Riggi insisted.
Costa leaned over the table and said, ‘He’s the prime suspect in a murder.’
The slick-looking cop shrugged.
‘You’re looking in the wrong place. He’s just some stuck-up English kid who’s making a little money passing pills and smoke to his buddies. Didn’t have it in him to kill someone. You got proof that says otherwise?’
‘Early days,’ Peroni replied.
‘I thought not. Listen. I’m telling you. Look somewhere else. Robert Gabriel isn’t a murderer. You’re wasting your time. And mine.’
Peroni caught Costa’s eye then said, ‘We could always requisition the informants’ register if you like. Or shall we just save everyone some time and hear it from you right now?’
Riggi let loose with a vile curse then slammed his fists on the table.
‘What is it with you people?’ he yelled. ‘Do you have any idea of the kind of work we do?’
‘Did it myself, son,’ Peroni snapped back. ‘Twenty years ago. Don’t get smart. There’s only one reason for you to protect this Gabriel kid.’
‘Twenty years ago was different! You had . . .’ Riggi looked lost for a moment, as if trying to remember something that had long eluded him. ‘There was some kind of sense of right or wrong out there. Listen to me. It’s gone. We’re trying to police people who don’t want to be policed. Victims and bad guys. None of them trusts us. None of them thinks we belong out there.’
Costa sighed and said, ‘Do you really think it’s different for anyone else in this building?’
‘Yes,’ Riggi replied. ‘And if I get someone who just might talk to me now and again I will not hand him over on a bunch of stupid coincidences.’ He scowled. It suited the stubble somehow. ‘Even if I did know where he is, and I don’t. Listen. Gabriel has been mildly useful to me, to us, in the past. In the future he could be a lot more help. Maybe take us to some of the Turks who are bringing this shit into the city.’
‘He’s a murder suspect,’ Peroni repeated.
‘I told you that’s not possible.’
Costa thought of Mina and her insistence: he isn’t bad. And that scared tone in the kid’s voice the previous night, as he pressed the gun barrel into Costa’s neck and told him to look at Joanne Van Doren’s swaying corpse because it was nothing to do with him or his family.
For some reason he couldn’t quite explain, Costa felt Robert might be telling the truth. Or a part of it anyway.
‘Does he have any idea of the risk he’s taking?’ he asked. ‘Playing both sides? Informing against people like that?’
The Turkish gangs were among the most ruthless in Rome. They didn’t think twice about maiming or killing someone who offended them. There was none of the hood etiquette, the pseudo-religious sense of guilt and responsibility, that could still have a restraining effect on a few Italian mobsters.
‘It’s not my job to walk some dumb English adolescent across the street,’ Riggi said.
‘Nic.’ Rosa reached across the table. ‘Really, we don’t know where he is.’ She shot a bitter glance at Riggi. ‘If I had an idea, you’d know. I promise.’
‘Teamwork, teamwork,’ the cop by her side muttered. ‘We’re so good at that around here.’
‘What about pornography?’ Peroni asked. ‘Was he involved in that? These Turks?’
‘Porn?’ Riggi asked, astonished. ‘Is this some kind of bad joke?’
‘No,’ Peroni told him. ‘This woman we think he killed died in what looks like some kind of porn studio. Hidden away, with its own darkroom. Has to be a reason for that.’
The Venetian threw back his head, laughing, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.
Rosa Prabakaran scowled and said, ‘They’re not involved in porn, Gianni. Why would they be? Porn’s so . . .’
‘Turn on your computer, man,’ Riggi cut in. ‘You get more porn for free through Google than you could buy for a fortune in one of those little places near Termini five years ago. It’s a saturated market. There’s no money there. Not on the scale these guys can make. Besides . . .’ He hesitated and, for a moment, seemed almost reflective. ‘What is it now? Five euros a month on your credit card. Straight. Gay. Violent. Kiddies. Animals . . .’
He looked at his watch. Then, in a tone that told them this interview was over, he said, ‘Even a low-grade runner like Robert Gabriel could make two, three hundred a day shifting pills and smoke. How many Polish hookers do you have to pimp to bring in that kind of bread? No. I told you already. He’s not your man. Not for murder. Or anything else.’
Rosa stared at Costa.
‘Porn’s for old people,’ she told him. ‘If you think that’s relevant somehow. Trust me, you really are looking in the wrong place.’
‘And that’s it,’ Riggi said, getting up from the table. ‘That’s all we have to tell you.’
THREE
The chemicals were fresh, the film still within its use-by date according to the box tag on the camera. Silvio Di Capua had weighed up his options. The Questura no longer possessed its own photographic darkroom; that corner of the forensic department had been handed over to a whirring server farm for the office network. Rome still had a few specialist photographic developing companies for the dwindling band of professionals who refused to use anything but film. But they’d take their time, cost money, and . . . and . . .
He caught the eye of Maria the intern, smiling at him in the red glow of the safety light, looking both pretty and extraordinarily gullible. Di Capua was developing the film from the camera in the darkroom next door to the makeshift porn studio for no other reason than because he wanted to. A good five or six years had passed since he’d last laboured over the delicious and demanding task of bringing emulsion to life through a patient mix of chemicals and skill. He missed that tactile experience, and since the equipment and the facilities were here on the spot already it seemed ridiculous not to use them.
Maria came close to him and stared at the dishes, sniffing the acrid aroma of old-fashioned photography, seemingly impressed.
‘How do yo
u know . . . ?’ she began to ask.
‘School,’ he said. All those years ago, when he was twelve or thirteen, learning how to develop black and white film – colour was too hard and a little . . . common was the word that came to mind.
Outside the firmly closed door a couple of inquisitive morgue monkeys were chatting as they worked the scene by the scarlet bed. This was a little unusual, Di Capua thought. But Teresa didn’t screech at them to stop. She had enough problems of her own, finding the resources to perform a basic forensic job and manage the caseload back at the Questura.
‘Watch,’ he said, then read the instructions on the bottles, just to make sure he remembered correctly. ‘And pray there’s something still left that didn’t get ruined.’
It took time. It was gradual, revelatory. Silvio Di Capua realized that, at the age of thirty, he’d somehow forgotten how to appreciate these slow and tantalizing processes.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty. Nearly twenty-one. I went to college a year early. I’m bright.’
Ten years, enough to create a gulf between them. So much had happened, so much had changed, while she was still little more than a child.
‘Of course you are. How much longer are you with us?’
‘A month.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Unless there’s an opening . . .’
They all wanted jobs. Decent jobs, the kind they thought they were owed. Di Capua had walked out of college to find the world at his feet. A good degree, a bright, inquisitive brain that could see him through any interview. Academia, finance, science; so many opportunities lay open to him when he was fresh to the market. Today they were all desperate, chasing a narrow and diminishing number of opportunities. Over-educated, over-qualified, young men and women praying they could find some niche to save themselves from the dull drone of badly paid service-industry jobs. And most of them never made it, just slumped into routine, dreary positions, hoping that one day the economic climate would improve and provide them with the kind of middle-class career they thought would arrive at so easily.