by Tobias Jones
She laughed nastily. ‘Don’t be melodramatic,’ she said. ‘You didn’t care about her before, so why should you care afterwards?’
‘She was my child.’ He still had a manic look about him, but his mania seemed about to melt into self-pity. Like a true egotist, he was sorry for himself, rather than the person he was mourning.
‘How did you do it?’ I asked her.
‘What does it matter?’
I repeated the question and pride got the better of her.
‘I knew where she was going, so I went to meet her. I waited outside that hotel and when she turned up, I invited her to get in the car. I told her that Chiara was round the corner and needed to talk to her. She wasn’t exactly keen, but she got in and as soon as she sat down next to me, I gave her a shot of botulinum toxin. Jabbed it straight into her thigh. You know what that is, Detective? It’s a toxin that often grows on sausages and pâté. That’s where the word botulism comes from. It’s Latin, you see. Latin for sausage.’
There was a nasty superiority to her tone, as if she were enjoying lecturing us about the substance she had used to kill Sartori.
‘I had the stuff for my cerebral palsy patients. In minute doses it can paralyse muscles. That’s its main medicinal purpose. It can be used for people with uncontrollable blinking or strabismus. Nowadays, though, it’s mainly used as a vanity product, as something that helps eradicate lines on ageing ladies. You’ll know it by the name Botox. Funny, isn’t it, that someone in the glamour industry ended up dead because of Botox?
‘Within seconds her pretty face had dropped. Her skin was going dry and pale and her breathing was suddenly uneven. Did I tell you it paralyses the muscles? She was trying to talk, but was only mumbling. Her chin was on her chest as if she were dozing off. Those pretty cheeks had gone a strange grey-blue. I’ll never forget that unnatural, stony colour. In less than a minute anyone looking into the car would have thought she was fast asleep.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I drove south. Just drove for miles, not knowing what to do. I’d never planned to hurt her, it was just an instinct, a mother’s instinct to protect her own daughter. And suddenly I had this sleeping beauty in the car. I kept driving until I came to a remote bit of coastline near Anzio. It was dusk and there was no one around so I just rolled her out of the car and took her to the cliff edge. I threw her on the ground and rolled her off. I saw her body hit the water and watched it being pulled out to sea. I sat there for an hour or more, watching her float away as the sun sank below the horizon. I still remember the euphoria as I watched her disappear.’
I suddenly saw, behind her drunkard’s exterior, her brutal soul. She was relishing the shock she had caused, not just by her actions but by her attitude to them. Her husband was staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time, her terrible barrenness laid bare.
‘I’m going to get dressed. I don’t want the Carabinieri to find me like this.’ She swung her legs out from under the covers and shuffled towards the bathroom. She shut the door behind her. I walked over towards her bed and looked out of the window. I doubted she was going to run, but I wanted to check that she wasn’t climbing out of the bathroom window. I pulled up the bedroom window and leant out. There, to my right and surrounded by wisteria, was the bathroom window, shut.
The deafening crack gave me a shock. The bathroom window was suddenly covered in blood. I raced back inside and saw Biondi standing there frozen, breathing heavily. The door to the bathroom was locked. I gave it a shoulder but it wouldn’t budge, so I took a step back and gave it a hard kick with my good foot. The door splintered above the handle and I reached in, found the key and unlocked the door.
She was lying beside the bath, an expanding puddle of dark blood emerging from underneath her head. A stubby, silver pistol was on the floor, under the basin.
I walked out and found Biondi on his hands and knees on the floor. He was hitting his fist against the carpet repetitively. He seemed to be entirely oblivious to my presence.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. He didn’t look up, but just kept hitting his fist against the floor.
‘First my daughter, now my wife,’ he was whispering to himself.
I took out my phone and called the Carabinieri. I explained what had happened, who Giovanna Biondi was, and what she had done. I gave them the address and hung up.
From the window I could see the traffic and the Tiber, both flowing slowly as normal. Birds were still shrieking and singing incessantly like nothing had happened. The world was unaware that it should have come to a standstill. From a nearby building I could hear the stoked excitement of an afternoon game show. The host was shouting encouragement and the audience were applauding and laughing. It sounded like a cookery contest, like a race against the clock to do something mundane. I suddenly felt very tired.
No crime had been committed here, so I decided to leave before the authorities arrived with their cameras and questions. I patted Biondi’s shoulder and headed out.
The car was hot, and I lowered the window before taking out my phone and finding the number for Anna’s mother. I thumbed the numbers in, wondering what I would say to her if she answered. I heard it ringing and pictured her tripping over her cats as she moved towards the phone. I knew I couldn’t give her the corpse she both dreaded and yet longed for. But at least she would get some kind of conclusion. It was still ringing, the electronic buzz drilling in my ear. Eventually I hung up, turned the key, and headed back north.
About the Author
Tobias Jones is the author of three works of non-fiction and two novels.
He has written and presented documentaries for the BBC and for RAI, the Italian state broadcaster‚ and has been a columnist for both the Observer and Internazionale.
He’s the co-founder and Warden of Windsor Hill Wood‚ a shelter for people undergoing a period of crisis in their lives.
www.tobias-jones.com
www.windsorhillwood.co.uk
Also by Tobias Jones
The Dark Heart of Italy
Utopian Dreams: In Search of a Good Life
Blood on the Altar: The True Story of an
Italian Serial Killer
In the Castagnetti series:
The Salati Case
White Death