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Where criminal women differ most markedly from the insane is in the rich luxuriance of their hair.
Lombroso, 1876 p 55
At first Horton seemed to be an easy mark. He moved slowly and his extravagant astrakhan-trimmed coat, together with his ornate silver-topped cane, certainly made him stand out. Ottolenghi and James pursued him through the streets. Occasionally he would come to a halt and they were forced to take cover behind one of the city’s many arches or down an alleyway. After a few minutes it started to drizzle and the landscape took on a strange glow as the yellow light from the flickering gas lamps was reflected in the windows of the shops and cafés that lined the streets. It felt good to be doing something concrete at last. For so long all they had done was talk about the murders. Now perhaps they finally had a suspect in Horton, who fitted Lombroso’s criminal type to some extent – but then, so did most people in one way or another.
All at once Horton’s pace began to speed up and then slow down again as if he knew he was being followed and was doing his best to confound his pursuers. More than once Ottolenghi, who was slightly ahead of James, would be forced to stop suddenly in order to avoid being seen, causing a minor collision from behind in the process.
On they went through the murky night. Visibility was low thanks to the combined forces of the rain and the fog which had started to curl round their feet and then risen to their faces. It smelt bad – like rotten eggs or sulphur. Were they getting nearer to hell? James wondered. He knew that was a fanciful suggestion, conjured by nerves and fear, but the pursuit of their quarry seemed endless and James was beginning to ache with the effects of the cold and damp. On and on they went, across piazzas, round corners and through walkways until suddenly Horton disappeared.
‘Where on earth did he go?’ James asked.
Ottolenghi shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t on earth at all,’ he said gloomily.
James shook his head. ‘You’ve been listening too much to the priest. Horton’s here all right. He’s just ducked into a building somewhere.’
‘I expect you’re right. There are a couple of brothels in this area and I’ve heard he is a frequent visitor to such places.’
‘I don’t know why, but that sounds just like Horton.’ James shivered. ‘After all this I think we deserve a large brandy. I’m frozen to the bone. Should we visit these places ourselves?’
‘No, let’s leave him to his pleasure,’ Ottolenghi said. ‘I really don’t think we will accomplish anything by tracking him down. Besides, La Capra’s not far from here. We could see how Tullio’s been getting on.’
James nodded reluctantly. Ottolenghi was right. What would following Horton to a brothel achieve? It made sense to head for La Capra, even though he’d been thinking of somewhere a little more refined for their reviving drink: one of Turin’s famous cafés, perhaps, or the bar at the Hotel Inghilterra.
Instead they made their way through the narrow streets until the sign of the goat’s head came into view, swinging in the wind, its hollow eyes staring eerily at them. As they pushed their way in through the door James could smell the same odour as he had last time they were there – sour milk, combined with stale sweat and tobacco. He thought to himself that he must have been mad to agree to go there rather than to the gilt splendour of Caffè Norman.
Their ears were met with a cacophony of raucous laughter and shouting as one group of drinkers tried to make themselves heard over another. James saw Tullio sitting at the bar looking miserable and pointed him out to Ottolenghi. They made their way over to him, and his eyes lit up as he saw them.
‘I am glad to see you,’ he said.
‘Has the old woman shown up?’ Ottolenghi asked.
Tullio shook his head glumly then suddenly his expression changed. ‘Look, over there in the corner, by that door at the back! It’s the man we were following the other day.’
It was hard to see in any detail as there was so much shadow but James could make out a cloaked figure sitting in front of the door that had the carving on it, a carafe of wine before him. Could Tullio be right? Swiftly, he got Gambro’s attention and the barman confirmed that the man had drunk in La Capra before.
Not wishing to alert him, they agreed to approach cautiously. They made their way towards him, as if they were merely looking for a free table. Every now and again James looked over in an effort to see the man more clearly. But it was hopeless. Not only was he shrouded in shadow but he also wore a hat pulled down over his face. He was certainly not eager to be identified.
They were about halfway to his table when a commotion erupted in front of them. Someone’s drink had been spilt and an argument began. There was much pushing and shoving. Insults were exchanged and then punches. Before long everyone seemed to be involved. Even old Pietro had got to his feet and was waving his tankard and shouting abuse at no one in particular. Two women were rolling on the floor screaming at each other and pulling out each other’s hair.
It was a traditional drunken brawl – little more than a free-for-all – and James’s party were not left out, their formal dress making them into targets with Tullio joined by association. An elderly man leapt onto Tullio’s back and started to hit him. He threw him off and picked up a nearby stool, waving it at the man who thought the better of continuing his assault. Ottolenghi was punched in the eye and pushed to the ground. Tullio, having rid himself of another assailant, rescued James from the fray. Beer and wine was everywhere. The place was in chaos.
Gambro waded in and began to pull people apart, then, with the help of one or two others, ejected the worst brawlers from the bar. Unfortunately, Ottolenghi, James and Tullio became part of this mass eviction and found themselves thrown into the mud in the street outside. Tullio’s nose was bleeding copiously. James could see from his expression that he was furious, and not a little embarrassed at having been caught up in something like this. He looked as if he might call for reinforcements and start arresting people.
‘We might as well go back in,’ he said.
‘Won’t we get thrown out again?’ James asked nervously. He was doing his best to clean himself with his handkerchief but was making little headway.
Ottolenghi grinned. ‘Don’t worry, at least now we’ll blend in!’
James looked down at himself – a man in a dirty dress suit – and grinned doubtfully.
‘Anyway,’ Ottolenghi continued, ‘I don’t think Gambro meant to get rid of us. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was accidental.’
‘It had better have been!’ Tullio replied. ‘If he or his friends try it again they’ll find themselves sharing a cell. Come on. I want to find out if that man was the same one we followed.’
By the time they were inside again things had calmed down somewhat. One or two people limped out assisted by their companions but most that remained, including the dark-haired man who had started the whole thing, had taken their seats again and were drinking happily as if nothing had happened. They all looked over to the corner where the shadowy figure had sat. The seat was empty.
‘Where could he have gone? I didn’t see him come past us,’ James wondered aloud.
Tullio shook his head. ‘We were somewhat preoccupied. He might have got past us, either of his own volition or propelled by Gambro. Let’s ask him if he saw anything.’
‘He certainly didn’t get past me,’ replied Gambro to their question. ‘Last I saw him was in the corner where he was sitting.’
They ordered drinks, by now sorely needed, and made their way over to the table where the mystery man had been sitting. Where had he got to? Had he managed to get past them in the confusion? As James placed his drink on the table he noticed something. Carved into its top was the same symbol as that on the door behind them. He pointed it out to Tullio and Ottolenghi.
‘I meant to mention the inverted cross on the door earlier, but I wasn’t sure that it was significant as it’s apparently so common.’
‘The inverted cross,�
� said Tullio, ‘just as the professor found on the bodies.’ He breathed in sharply and crossed himself, which startled James a little. It was a sign of superstition that seemed out of place given Tullio’s interest in scientific policing. Ottolenghi frowned with concentration as he examined both carvings carefully. When he had finished they sat in silence for a moment as if digesting the possible significance of the symbol. Tullio looked worried and puzzled at the same time. It was as if none of them knew quite what to do at that point.
Suddenly Tullio’s eyes lit up. He seemed to have had an idea. He turned to the door behind them. It was not locked and opened easily. He beckoned to Gambro to come over.
‘Where does this door lead?’ he asked, urgently.
‘Just to the cellar – I wouldn’t go down there if I were you. It’s damp as hell and smells worse than in here,’ Gambro counselled.
‘Is there any other way out of here or the cellar?’ Tullio asked.
‘No, not really – well, not unless you count the tunnels.’
‘Of course, I should have realised!’ He turned to his companions. ‘Did you know that there’s a network of them running under the city?’ They nodded, having heard of them just hours earlier. ‘It never occurred to me that there might be an opening here.’
‘Well, there’s only one thing for it. If that man has gone down there then we’ll have to follow him,’ Ottolenghi said firmly.
Gambro shook his head. ‘It’s not safe. There have been quite a few collapses recently.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Tullio replied.
‘ “I” ?’ James protested. ‘Don’t you mean, “we” ?’
Tullio shook his head. ‘There’s no sense in all of us putting ourselves at risk. I’m paid for this. You are not.’
Ottolenghi shook his head. ‘If you go, we go,’ he said firmly.
A few moments later they were all making their way down some decidedly rickety stairs, armed only with three lanterns Gambro had given them and Tullio’s truncheon. As they went down into the depths James shivered and looked longingly back up towards the light. He couldn’t help thinking that it was as though they were descending into hell itself. James could have sworn that he caught a whiff of sulphur as if, with every step, they were drawing closer to the Devil.
One thing was certain. There was no going back now and James was apprehensive. What if they found the killer? James had conjured up in his mind a shadowy image, half human, half demon, with glowing eyes and . . . well, he wasn’t sure what else he envisaged.
Of course, the terrible truth of it was that this murderer was no supernatural being, but a man. That was a far more frightening thought than anything that James could imagine and none of Lombroso’s theories, or indeed those of anyone else concerned in the study of crime, dealt with the reasons for this level of depravity.
He shivered in the chill atmosphere. ‘It’s so cold down here,’ he complained.
‘It is said that the tunnels are haunted by the spirits of dead soldiers,’ whispered Tullio. ‘Perhaps that is why.’
‘Who built them?’ James asked. Conversation made him feel less nervous, whatever its content.
‘Soldiers, I think,’ replied Tullio. ‘The tunnels are named after Pietro Micca, a soldier who died in 1706 while defending the city during the siege of Turin. He detonated a mine down here, somewhere.’
Their lanterns flickered in the gloom as they made their way through the archways and brick-lined passages. There was no sign of anyone, although once or twice James thought he saw a figure in the distance. Tullio told them that it was just his own shadow on the walls ahead but James was not so sure.
And then they heard it, a soft rhythmic drumbeat from what sounded like a few hundred yards away. They stopped to listen for a few seconds and then decided to follow the sound. Could this really be some kind of ghost? For a moment or two it seemed as if they were all seriously considering the possibility. The tunnels were dark and atmospheric and seemed an ideal habitat for a spirit.
They began running for the sound seemed to be moving away from them. Then suddenly there was an unearthly scream, shrill and terrifying, which stopped them in their tracks. There was a clatter and then more darkness. James came to a halt, his fear so acute that he could barely move.
Ottolenghi had dropped his lantern. Now the light was so dim that they could hardly see anything. James looked down at his own. It was dangerously close to going out. He had never encountered anything like this before. He felt as if his whole body was clenched with the tension. On went the drumming – it seemed to be getting louder but also was moving away more quickly until it was difficult for them to keep up. It was not helped by the fact that they would occasionally get to a dead end and have to retrace their steps and make a turn. The drumbeat seemed to change direction as if it was taunting them. On and on they went, through tunnel after tunnel for what seemed like hours. Then Tullio came to an abrupt halt and put his finger to his lips.
‘Sssh – listen . . .’ he whispered.
The drumbeat had stopped as quickly as it had begun. There was what sounded like laughter, the sound of footsteps running and then silence.
Tullio looked around him. They had been so intent in their pursuit that it seemed he was no longer sure of their exact location. James looked at his face and his heart sank.
‘We’re lost, aren’t we?’
‘Not exactly,’ Tullio said. ‘The tunnels run all over the city and there are entrances and exits everywhere. It’s just a matter of finding one.’
James shivered. What if they couldn’t find their way out? It had to be a possibility at least. He could hear scrabbling noises that sounded alarmingly like rats and the smell of sulphur he had noticed earlier seemed to be getting stronger. He felt panic rising in him.
Ottolenghi looked absolutely terrified. Then, in the gloom, they heard footsteps again. He could hear his own heart, hammering away in his chest. Tullio beckoned to them to follow him and they did so although James was not at all sure that he wanted to meet whoever they were pursuing. The footsteps gradually increased in speed until they were running. Then, as they rounded a corner, Ottolenghi fell to the ground in a heap and scrabbled in the darkness in an effort to get to his feet. James offered him a hand to get up and when he took it he could feel that it was wet. Ottolenghi’s face was filled with horror as he looked down. James thought that he had tripped over a dead animal of some kind, a dog or a cat. It was neither.
Tullio brought his lantern lower and they could see that Ottolenghi’s hands were covered in blood. He was sitting next to a corpse. Once he had been helped to his feet they began to examine what they had found. They stared down, transfixed by the sight before them. The body lay in a large pool of blood, dark and sticky in the fading light, like a slick of oil. Tullio started to move his lantern slowly downwards and they saw her face, her eyes staring up at them as if she was pleading for help. Her mouth was opened in a grimace – almost a snarl. Then something on her chest shone in the flickering light of the lantern. They looked at it more closely. It looked like a piece of a liver. James looked at Ottolenghi. He had his hand over his face as if trying to protect himself from breathing in the horror.
It was the body of Rosa Bruno.
Tullio moved his lantern down further to reveal yet more.
Rosa’s skirts were up around her waist. The skin of her stomach had been sliced open and her intestines pulled out and arranged on her thighs. Somehow, James thought, it looked slightly surreal, as if someone had drawn it.
‘My God. Who . . . who could do such a thing?’ he said. He was about to look away when something caught his eye. ‘What’s that in her hand?’ he asked. As Tullio lifted her left arm they could see that she was clutching a note.
‘Let me see,’ Ottolenghi said, sufficiently recovered to apply his scientific policing methods. He looked at it carefully. ‘Another tribute note to Lombroso.’
‘What do we do now?’ James asked. ‘We can hardly leave her do
wn here.’
‘I’ll go back to the surface and alert the authorities,’ said Tullio, decisively. ‘Assuming I can find my way out of here, that is. The entrance can’t be far away. The killer would have had to get the victim down here to perform the mutilation.’
James looked at the pool of blood. ‘She was still alive when he did this.’
Tullio nodded grimly. ‘It certainly looks that way but even if she wasn’t the killer would not want to go far from the exit.’
‘He must have done this at least an hour or two ago, from the state of the blood,’ James said.
‘You’re right,’ Ottolenghi said.
‘In which case . . .’ James said, his eyes widening in fear.
‘What?’ Tullio said urgently.
‘Who screamed?’
They stood in silence and the darkness seemed to close in on them, as if the walls were moving ever closer.
Tullio lifted his lantern. ‘I must go. This must be reported in the proper way and besides, I want to let the professor know first in case he wants to examine the body. You two stay here and keep guard. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.’
‘What if the killer comes back? Presumably those were his footsteps,’ Ottolenghi said, nervously.
‘The killer was obviously leading us here. He wanted us to find the body,’ Tullio said. ‘I don’t think he’ll be back.’
James looked over to Ottolenghi who nodded at him with a confidence that he really did not share.
They watched Tullio as he made his way along a passage. Soon the light of his lantern had disappeared into nothing, leaving them with the dim flicker that was all that was left of James’s. All they could do now was wait and hope that Tullio knew what he was doing. As they sat, James heard more scrabbling, and he saw some movement out of the corner of his eye. Soon the rats began to join them. Presumably they could smell the blood. There was plenty of it, after all. The men kicked out at them but made little impression. James could still hear them scratching and squeaking and it made his skin crawl. They sat in silence for a while, alone with their thoughts. Then Ottolenghi spoke.
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