The Villa of Mysteries

by David Hewson

  Mickey was different. He’d do just about anything she asked. Anything. And he was young. He didn’t thrash away for a couple of minutes then roll over and go to sleep, grunting, snoring. He gave her something back. Although, when she thought about it, Adele Neri realised those gifts no longer contained the attraction for her they once had. The physical world had limitations. With age came a realization that there were more intangible goals in life: power, control, security. The ability to shape one’s own destiny.

  Mickey wasn’t the only one she held in thrall like this either. When she thought about it, she was amazed she’d got away with her secret lovers for so long. She’d been careful, discreet, and sure to choose those who knew better than to boast. All the same Emilio Neri was a curious and vengeful man. There was a look in his eye just now that she didn’t like. He’d find out one day, and then she could only guess at what he’d do. There was, she thought, an inevitability to a life like hers: a period of infatuation, a time of spent satisfaction, then the final leg of the journey, ennui, sloth, disaster. Unless you planned. Unless you moved when the moment came. Emilio was getting slow and stupid. It was time, she thought, to think of the succession, before the hourglass ran dry and the empire crumbled to dust.

  Nic Costa parked the car outside the looming bulk of the old Roman theatre, walked to the apartment and pressed the doorbell. He was still fighting to clear his head, to make some sense of what was happening. It was like untangling a skein of wool.

  “Yes?” Her voice sounded anxious, expectant. He could hear the disappointment, fear perhaps, when he answered.

  “It’s just a small thing,” he said quickly. “I have to check. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she murmured and let him in.

  Miranda Julius was alone in the living room which was still echoing to the buzz of traffic on the Lungotevere. She was wearing loose white-cotton pyjamas and a red dressing gown. Her fair hair was still damp and dark from the shower. She appeared younger somehow. Maybe it was her eyes, which seemed wider than he recalled, and shone a bright, intense blue. The pain lent her face a delicate, stressed beauty. He couldn’t start to imagine how she felt.

  She took one look at him and said, “There’s no news, is there?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  She sighed. It was what she expected, he thought. “Do you want a drink? Or is that out of bounds?”

  She was clutching a glass of red. He remembered how many times he’d dived into that rich, fragrant lake since his father died, and the struggle required to get out and shake yourself dry. The longing never disappeared.

  “Just a small one,” he said and straightaway she went into the kitchen and came out with a bottle of Barolo, a good year, an expensive one.

  “This all goes tonight. I couldn’t sleep. I just keep wondering . . . Didn’t anyone see her?”

  He’d watched women in these situations before. Sometimes they went to pieces. Sometimes they just turned inside themselves. Miranda Julius was different. She seemed determined not to let the agony of her daughter’s disappearance defeat her. He hoped this act of defiance would last.

  “No,” he answered honestly. “It’s early. This isn’t good or bad. It’s just how it is. She could still just be another runaway for all we know. You’d be amazed how often that happens.”

  She raised her glass. “Thanks, Nic. Thanks for trying.”

  Then she poured his, clumsily. Some of the purple liquid stained his jacket.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, dabbing at the fabric with a tissue. “Had a couple of glasses earlier. It helps.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  He tried the wine. It tasted gorgeous: rich and full of subtle delights.

  Costa pulled the plastic envelope out of his pocket. “This is a very long shot but I have to ask. Do you recognize this? Did Suzi have something like it?”

  She stared at the coloured hair-band. “Yes . . . yes, I think so. But they’re not exactly rare.”

  “I know. Is it still here?”

  He followed her to the girl’s bedroom. They sorted through the piles of clothes and the drawers. Everything was very tidy, he thought. There was a handful of bands in a bedside drawer. None in the same style.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked.

  “It could be anybody’s. I’ll get the lab to look. I need something of hers they can check it with. A hairbrush?”

  There were two on the dressing table. She nodded. He took the biggest. It was full of stray blonde hair, soft and golden, a couple of shades lighter than her mother’s.

  The blue eyes shone at him, unyielding. “Nic . . . where?”

  “Someone was killed out near the airport this afternoon. A university professor who was working on an excavation. He could have been involved with some kind of cult. There was a villa there. It seems to have been used for some kind of ceremony, perhaps recently. We don’t know.”

  “Killed?”

  “We don’t know why. I doubt there’s a connection at all. There’s no evidence Suzi went there. We’ll check the hair-band, of course.”

  “Was there—?” She clutched the glass, her shoulders hunched. “This ceremony. Had someone else been hurt there too? Before?”

  “We don’t know that anything’s happened to Suzi,” he said firmly.

  “But you know something you’re not telling me. This ritual. This isn’t the first time, is it?”

  “Maybe not,” he conceded.

  “And someone died then?”

  “Sixteen years ago. It’s a long time.”

  The blue eyes fixed on him. “Who was she?”

  “I can’t tell you. In any case it’s probably just coincidence.”

  He could see she didn’t believe him. Miranda Julius walked back into the living room and poured more wine, standing by the table, nervous, uncertain of herself. He followed, watching her. She was shivering. He put down his glass and, very gently, held her by the shoulders. “I can get someone to come and stay here, Miranda. A policewoman. You don’t have to be alone.”

  There was an intensity about her at that moment, as if she were grasping for something important. Costa was suddenly aware that he felt attracted to this odd, damaged woman, against all his better judgement.

  “You know the thing about kids?” she asked. “They drive you mad. They keep you sane too. It took years to work out, that was why I stayed away from Suzi. If I lived with her she’d force me to be responsible. She’d make me try to become something I’m not. So I just dumped her, somewhere safe, somewhere invisible, and went wherever I felt like. Places that made sense to me because they were stupid and pointless and perhaps I could forget she even existed.”

  “What changed?” he asked.

  “You think something changed?”

  “You’re here. You came with her. From what you’ve said that wouldn’t have happened a while ago.”

  She seemed to appreciate this insight. He took away his hands. There were thoughts rising in Nic Costa’s head he didn’t want there.

  “I wanted to do what was right for once,” she said. “It was almost as if I’d forgotten about her. Forgotten about a part of me—”

  She refilled their glasses quickly and gulped at the wine.

  “She deserved better than that. So I went out and bought the tickets, booked this place. It was a last-minute thing. It seemed a good idea. Just get up and go somewhere. Together.”

  “Why now?”

  She didn’t seem to want to think about this too much. There was pain there. He wondered why he wanted to know.

  “Because I needed someone, I guess. There was a gap in my life and, in my own selfish way, I thought perhaps it was time to fill it with family.”

  She turned her head to one side, remembering. “Last year, when I was still working, I was in yet another shitty hole in the Middle East, watching people shoot the crap out of each other. I had a man at the time. A reporter. French guy. He made me laugh. That was all. But it was enough. All
I needed. Then one day he climbed into a jeep and—”

  She put down the wine glass and came close to him, peering into his eyes, shaking her head. “It was just a car crash. Can you believe it? All those years, both of us had been walking past bullets, driving over land mines. And then one day he’s going down the road and the idiot behind the wheel turns right instead of left. Bang, they’re over a cliff. Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” she asked severely. “You didn’t know him. You don’t know me.”

  Her breath smelled of wine, her body of something else. Expensive perfume.

  “And I didn’t love him. I liked him. Respected him. Before all this happened I’d promised myself I’d dump him. That ought to make it easier. Instead it makes it worse.”

  She reached forward and splayed her fingers across his chest. Costa stepped back, put his hands up and said, “Miranda. You’re upset. Let me get a woman officer in here.”

  “Don’t want one.” Her voice was slurred but more through tiredness than drink, he thought.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s a habit I have when things start to go wrong. Sleeping with strangers. You know something?”

  He didn’t dare say a word. His head was racing to places he wanted to avoid.

  “Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it’s the best thing, the kindest thing, you can find.”

  Gently, she placed her arms around him, let her damp head fall onto his chest. Nic Costa felt the warmth of her lips brush his neck.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight. Please. Just hold me if that’s what you want. But don’t leave me. Please—”

  He pulled himself away, and it was the hardest thing. “I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning. This will work out. I promise.”

  There was a hungry, desperate look in her eyes.

  “Of course,” she said, and it was impossible for him to read what she was thinking.

  It was cold outside, with a little light rain falling gently as a veil in front of the moon. He walked to his car thinking how close he’d been to giving in, whether she was right, and whether it mattered at all.

  Teresa Lupo was jerked awake by the bright lights of the crane swinging its burden out of the artificial cavern. The gurney swayed from side to side as if it were teasing her. She yawned and looked at her watch. It was close to midnight. The day seemed endless. Her bruised body hurt like hell. She needed sleep desperately. Yet a man had tried to kill her. This was a new experience. His corpse deserved her attention. For her own sake she needed to peer into his dead eyes searching for some meaning.

  Falcone had been on the phone for almost an hour before she nodded off. After the brief factual account she gave of what happened in Randolph Kirk’s office he’d hardly spoken to her. If that was as far as the punishment went, she would be lucky. Teresa Lupo had overstepped the mark several times over and she knew it. But if it helped, if it found Suzi Julius, if it began to unravel the riddle of Eleanor Jamieson’s death, everything would be worthwhile. Perhaps everything would be forgiven.

  Rachele D’Amato sat in her own car, talking to no one. The morgue crew, short staffed because they had divided between Kirk’s site and the airport, did their work mutely, knowing something was wrong. Here were three arms of the state, Teresa reflected: the police, the morgue and the DIA. And none of them talking to each other much. Private matters, bruised egos and past relationships had intruded into what should have been a professional, impersonal assignment. She was as much to blame as any of them.

  “To hell with it,” she whispered to herself. “If we find out just one more thing about the girl we’re better off than we were.”

  Falcone walked over with Peroni. D’Amato got out of the car and joined them. All three looked dog-tired. “We’ve got a body,” the inspector grunted. “I presume you want to see.”

  “You bet.” She’d spent hours waiting for them to find a safe way of bringing it to the surface. They’d had to bring in extra machinery, longer cables, teams of men in white hats who disappeared into the ground looking grumpy and puzzled by why they were there. It wasn’t a crime scene. It was a construction site.

  Now that the corpse was here, on the ground, strapped to a gurney that shone under the artificial sun of the crane lights, Teresa Lupo didn’t feel as keen to see it face to face as she had earlier. The image of the black-headed insect trying to take away her life was one that would stay with her a long time.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked as they walked towards the small team gathered by the trolley, on the side away from the pit.

  “Identification would be useful,” Falcone said.

  “I can take the helmet off: I can go through his pockets. What about the bike?”

  “Checked that already,” Peroni replied. “The number was false but we managed to ID it from the code on the frame. Stolen from Turin three weeks ago. They’ve been losing a lot of high-powered machines from there recently. They think it’s some kind of organized ring.”

  “It is,” D’Amato added. “The Turin mob ship them here all the time. We’ve got intelligence. Neri’s involved in that. He’s not the only one. But—”

  “Later,” Falcone said.

  They stood over the corpse which lay face up on the gurney, limbs awry, pointing at crazy, unnatural angles, like a broken doll. The left arm was almost wrenched from its socket. Bare skin was visible next to bone and torn flesh from the shoulder joint. Teresa Lupo ordered them to turn off the big, bright lights of the crane. They were dazzling her. They had enough illumination of their own with the kit they’d brought along.

  “He’s smaller than I remember,” she said. Maybe that always happens, she thought. Normally she just saw dead people. She had no idea what they were like breathing, talking, being alive.

  Falcone gazed at his watch and sighed.

  “Patience,” she murmured and crouched down, wondering how she felt, whether she could draw up the customary amount of respect for the dead that she tried to bring to every autopsy.

  The rider was probably gone the moment he hit the wall of the pit, before his shattered body fell to the bottom of the hole with the bike. His neck was broken, crushed down onto his right shoulder. The helmet had withstood the impact—just. A crazed pattern on the crown marked the impact. The black visor was covered in scratches and mud and dust.

  “Poor bastard,” she whispered automatically, and scraped away at the fastening straps. Ordinarily she’d tell Falcone to get lost. Tell him it was too awkward to try to remove the thing here, close to midnight, out in the freezing dead land by Fiumicino. He could wait till they got back to the morgue, with her tools and her easy tricks of the trade. But he didn’t want to wait, and neither did she. The man was dead anyway. It wasn’t going to be a pretty funeral whatever happened.

  Teresa Lupo asked one of the morgue assistants to bring over a medical bag, took out a scalpel, carefully cut open the clasps then, as gently as she could, pulled the helmet back towards the top of the head. There was some initial resistance. She adjusted the position of the skull and found an easier path. The plastic moved under the pressure of her fingers, the wrecked corpse nodded forward, and slowly, with great caution, she tugged the fragmented casing free.

  Matted yellow hair, coated in blood, fell beneath her fingers.

  Peroni turned his back on them, swearing constantly. No one spoke for a minute.

  Beneath the bright portable arc lights lay Barbara Martelli, the traffic cop most men in the Questura had, at some stage, fantasized about. Her blonde locks fell in spent and bloodied curls around a face that wore a pained, final sneer. Her dead eyes were half open. Her teeth, normally so bright and white and perfect, betrayed the signs of her cruel death. Behind full, curled lips now turning pale, the gore had risen in her throat, staining them a dark, sticky black.

  “For chrissake,” Peroni yelled at no one behind her. “For chrissake.”

  Teresa Lupo reached down and unzipped the jacket, revea
ling beneath the torn leather the unmistakable female form. Martelli still wore her uniform shirt. A wet, black stain was seeping through her chest, up towards her throat. She remembered the woman well. She looked so unlike any other female cop. Sometimes she’d watch her walk through the station, knowing every male pair of eyes was following her, and a good many female ones too. She’d wonder how it felt to be that attractive, how much maintenance you needed to do on a body that looked as if it just fell out of bed perfect every morning. She’d been jealous. It all seemed so petty now. Teresa Lupo was at a loss to put together any of these pieces. Why Barbara Martelli of all people should be the hitman—sorry, hitperson—deputed to despatch Randolph Kirk to hell. Whether Martelli had decided to extend these deadly privileges to the hapless pathologist locked in the next room on her own initiative, with a little on-the-spot improvisation, or whether she was under orders. And whose? It was as if time were running backwards: with every passing minute they knew less and the world got murkier and more illogical.

  “If you’d asked I’d have looked the other way,” she said softly to herself. “I didn’t even warm to Booger Bill.”

  Then her eye caught something else and she couldn’t work out whether the mist was cleating or had just become downright impenetrable.

  She was shaken from this reverie by Falcone’s hand on her shoulder, his sharp, sour face, with its silver pointed beard, staring into hers.

  “Thanks, doctor,” he said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No.” The inspector was making a point. She should have seen the signs. “I meant thank you. Now I have a dead cop too.”

  “What?”

  Falcone was turning his back on her, starting to walk away. She couldn’t believe it. Even Peroni seemed embarrassed.

  “Hey?” she yelled.

  He turned. She remembered a trick from when she’d briefly played women’s rugby, before they threw her off the team for too many fouls.