The Viper

by Christobel Kent

  ‘So?’ he said to Ceri.

  It turned out he didn’t have much to add, but Sandro listened anyway. You had to listen to everything, and the kid was eager.

  ‘She sounded pretty shaky,’ said Ceri. ‘I mean, literally, her voice shook, like she had Parkinson’s or one of those. She tried to explain to me about their community, where she is now. It’s some kind of religious thing – they keep mobiles and all that out, no computers. It’s all about meditation and mindfulness. Whatever that is. She said she hadn’t used a telephone in sixteen years, can you believe that? They have the landline for emergencies only.’

  Sandro was standing by Pietro at the pump now. ‘She wouldn’t tell you what she wanted to say?’ Pietro shook out the pump, replaced it, locked the petrol cap. They climbed in, but Pietro didn’t start the car. In the padded, sound-proofed leather interior Ceri’s voice was audible, and Pietro was listening.

  ‘She said she remembered you.’

  Sandro cleared his throat. ‘Really?’ The word came out at a higher pitch than he’d intended.

  ‘She said she remembered two policemen, an old one and a young nice-looking one. She said if you were the young one she wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘She had registered the nature of the investigation?’ said Sandro stiffly. ‘That it concerned a murder?’

  ‘Two murders,’ said Ceri. ‘Yes. She repeated that she would like to talk to the young policeman.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not sure about her – mental state, to be honest. She seemed to wander. She started telling me about what she had eaten for her breakfast. I told her, the young one – I said, you do know he isn’t young any more?’

  Sandro laughed, not very happily.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ceri, clearing his throat, ‘she said she’d try you tonight.’

  Sandro thanked him – because back-up was back-up, after all – and hung up.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ Pietro said, reaching for the ignition. ‘Another old lady who’s lost her marbles.’

  Sandro sighed now, the phone in his hand. Back-up. Would he miss it when this was over? Would he be able to go back to the little office, being nursemaided by Luisa and Giuli? The car started, and they glided away from the pump, smooth as silk.

  ‘Okay, boss,’ said Pietro, pulling over and coming a halt, engine running. It was the second time he had been called boss today. Ahead of them, beyond the slip road, the traffic thundered, and Sandro felt a knot of apprehension in his stomach. Pietro scrutinised him. ‘Next stop, a spa break – diet and mud-baths and mineral waters, all-inclusive?’ He leaned over and tapped to open something on the iPad in Sandro’s lap.

  The pictures sprang up. La Serenita. A gallery of expensively shot photographs: a snowy mountainside, a ridge of pines, the sleek silhouette of a hotel, all glass and stone, an infinity pool. A woman in a white towel face down on a massage bed.

  Sandro sighed. ‘I guess,’ he said, then reluctantly, ‘You want me to drive this bit?’

  Pietro shook his head, smiling wanly. ‘I value my car too much for that,’ he said, and Sandro was relieved. Too much walnut and leather, too many dials and alarms.

  On the picnic tables between the petrol pumps and the Autogrill the little family were clearing their lunch away, the mother holding a wriggling small boy by the arm while she swiped at his face with a wet wipe. No more welcome than the old days, when your mother spat into her hanky.

  ‘How’s my god-daughter?’ he said to Pietro as they moved off, wishing for a moment to be back in the real world, not the world of post-mortem pictures nor of luxury spas. His god-daughter was Pietro and Gloria’s only child, Chiara, and he knew better than most she hadn’t always been plain sailing.

  ‘Ach, you know,’ said Pietro, but he was smiling. The big car purred down the slip road. ‘She’s been with this guy for a few years now.’ Grudgingly, ‘He’s okay, I suppose. Gloria worships the ground he walks on, so he’s all right with me.’ Rolling his eyes. ‘How’s Giuli?’ shooting a casual glance at the traffic as they glided effortlessly in front of a big German articulated lorry.

  ‘Giuli,’ Sandro said. ‘Now she’s got Enzo –’ he paused, frowning ‘– she’s fine, I think.’ He wasn’t sure, suddenly. ‘You saw her as recently as I did.’

  ‘Well,’ said Pietro cheerfully, ‘she’s never going to be, you know, any doctor’s poster girl, is she? After the life she’s had. But as a matter of fact I thought she looked pretty good.’

  Up ahead the mountains had just come into view, whitecapped and spectral on the horizon, rising out of the cherry orchards and vineyards.

  ‘She’s got something on her mind,’ said Sandro, although it had only just dawned on him. ‘She’s stressed.’ He groped for his phone, reflexively, superstitiously. He wanted to talk to Luisa, to Giuli, to ask each about the other, to make sure everything was going to be okay: the women in his life.

  Up ahead came the flare of several sets of red brake lights coming on. Pietro indicated to come out and there was a brief blast of a horn, the hostile white flash of headlights, as an even bigger, even faster car hurtled past, and with an impatient sound Pietro came back in. The car slowed.

  Is everything going to be okay? He knew without looking that the last message he’d sent to Luisa said, I’m sorry. I love you.

  Something else was nagging at him. The woman taking herself off to a spa to kill herself. Why there? And then as if it read his mind – and they did say, didn’t they, that machines almost could these days – the iPad came alive in his hand (he must have grazed something with his hand) and there was the last thing he’d looked at, the home page of La Serenita. ‘I wonder,’ Sandro said, then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  It was only when Pietro turned to look at him that he realised he’d spoken. ‘I think it’s possible that something happened,’ he said, ‘at the hotel. Or fat farm or whatever.’ He looked down at the picture. ‘Wellness centre.’

  They both looked at each other, then Pietro looked back at the road just in time and braked. An ambulance zipped past, lights flashing, on the hard shoulder.

  ‘Gorgone?’ said Pietro.

  ‘Doesn’t do any harm to give the guy a call,’ said Sandro as they slowed to a stop in four lanes of traffic jam. ‘Does it?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS GETTING COLDER.

  There was a wet wind from somewhere. It came up suddenly, strangely, a stiff breeze that made Giuli stop in the Via delle Terme, wondering if it was just her. But the Via delle Terme was one of those streets that always seemed deserted and she could see no one to corroborate the sensation. Giuli actually shivered, in her thin summer jacket – and then the breeze was gone. She walked on.

  The Tornabuoni was, as always, bustling with shoppers. The summer’s potted jasmine and plumbago still in place, the pedestrians in light clothing, strolling. Windless. Giuli crossed it in a hurry, intent on her destination. As she saw the sign – a crudely jig-sawed and painted boot – and the open door, she slowed. She could hear the high whine of the grinder as she approached and there was his back. The narrow shoulders, brown apron strings, thinning hair, glasses just visible perched on the top of his head as he leaned down, his back to her, trimming a leather sole in the finishing machine.

  Perhaps he had a sixth sense for a customer or the sound of a heel that – as Giuli’s did – could do with tipping because the cobbler stopped almost immediately she paused in his doorway and turned. Brought the glasses down on to his nose and straight away looked at Giuli’s feet: a professional interest. She scuffled, embarrassed: they were boots off the market, twenty-nine euros, and when he raised his eyes to her face she knew he could tell.

  Not quite as old as she had thought yesterday. Sixty rather than seventy. It occurred to her that the girl in the expensive handbag shop wouldn’t know the difference: once someone was over forty they were ancient. It occurred to Giuli that – perhaps since she never thought she’d even get old – ageing had never bothered her until now.
Until she started feeling her body going wrong. Your periods stopped, and then the rest started up – she halted the train of thought.

  Because it wasn’t ageing that was bothering her, was it? It was being dead. Being gone, and leaving Enzo. His poor ma, the look in her eyes from Enzo to her husband, even to Giuli, the worry over how they’d manage without her. Life going on without her. Stop it.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ Giuli said. He looked at her a second, then went on fiddling with the shoe he had in his hands. Tiny, tiny. A little court shoe, from the days when women had little bones, little feet.

  She tried again. ‘I wonder if I can ask you something?’

  He grunted. ‘Can’t stop you, can I,’ he said.

  ‘The girl in the bag shop said you might know.’ His bad temper was familiar: like Sandro’s. You had to approach it with care or he might just push you back out the door and shut up shop.

  Another grunt, this time rich with disdain. ‘Well, she certainly doesn’t know, whatever it is,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t know French leather from Patagonian, doesn’t know if it’s raining unless her phone tells her.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Giuli.

  He held the shoe out in front of him, sighed, then reached up to a shelf of polish tins and selected one. Navy blue. Then a rag, clean duster, brush, lined them up on his bench. ‘What is it then?’ The glasses were back on the top of his head, a dab of polish on the rag, applied to the shoe. Giuli watched, mesmerised. She experienced an odd second of longing to reach for the shoe and offer to help. Was she too old to learn a trade?

  ‘The old lady in Via del Parioncino,’ she said.

  The polish had all been applied and he raised his head; the glasses fell back down on his nose. He reached for the brush. ‘Ha,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to be more specific. Old how? Your age, my age, ancient?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly,’ she said. Trying to remember the voice, thin, cracked, girlish. ‘She’s a grandmother, I know that much. Has a granddaughter of, maybe –’ she guessed ‘– three, no, four. Preschool age. And a daughter – obviously, the child’s mother.’ He was on to the duster now, polishing the shoe to a high gloss.

  The child had to have been at least four. It occurred to her that it was odd, though, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t the child in nursery? The call had come in during the day. ‘Number three?’ she said. They both turned to look back at the Via del Parioncino: you could just see the door.

  He raised the shoe up, checking it under the light, then looked past it to examine Giuli. He was shrewd behind his glasses. ‘Number three’s Signora Ticino,’ he said, shaking his head a little, frowning. ‘We don’t see many children down here,’ and he removed his glasses completely, wiping his forehead with the back of a hand, suddenly weary, older, his face creased. ‘You lot don’t have them, do you? You younger generation? One at the most.’ He shook his head. ‘We’d have thought it a tragedy, in our day. I mean, they’re work, aren’t they, little kids, but without them, what’s the point?’

  Giuli felt tears start to her eyes, of outrage; her mouth opened but nothing came out. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard it said before.

  ‘You think I’m an old fool,’ he said, eyeing her beadily. ‘Or – what’s the word? Prejudiced. Well, we’re all prejudiced, aren’t we? One way or the other. You, me, her in the handbag shop, anyone who pretends otherwise is lying. Young folks the most prejudiced of all if you ask me. But I’m sorry if I upset you.’ He gave her a closer look. ‘If it’s any comfort, we never had any ourselves.’

  He picked up the partner to the mended and polished shoe and began on that.

  Giuli felt herself subside: curiously, she actually felt better. ‘So,’ she began again, ‘do you know who I mean? Mrs Ticino, or whatever her name is?’ He sighed, and hearing reluctance she hurried on. ‘It’s not exactly her I’m after, you see. It’s not her I’m worried about.’

  ‘Who are you worried about?’ the cobbler said, working away at the shoe. He didn’t look up at her this time, and it occurred to her that it might be best to tell him it all, even if it sounded unhinged, the wild-goose-chase of a barren woman. She might be anyone.

  ‘You see,’ Giuli began, ‘I work in a detective agency.’

  He heard her out. By the time she finished the tiny shoes were done: re-soled, re-tipped, polished and put in a brown paper bag side by side. He clipped a pink ticket to them, with a scrawl on it only decipherable probably to himself.

  ‘So you’re worried that the mother or the grandmother is mistreating the child,’ he said. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I – I don’t know. There’s just something – something not right about it. Why isn’t the child at school? When children dial at random they usually just hang up or laugh, don’t they? They don’t beg for help.’ She did sound unhinged.

  ‘Give me that boot,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Giuli didn’t know if she’d heard right.

  ‘Your boot,’ he repeated, nodding at her foot. ‘The heel tip’s come off. Won’t take a minute.’

  ‘They’re not worth –’

  He gave her a sharp look. ‘Everything’s worth mending,’ he said. Obediently she handed him the boot, averting her eyes from the scuffs. ‘Not bad workmanship,’ he said. ‘You know, they’re probably made out beyond Prato. Not all rubbish you get on the market.’

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ he said. ‘I can only think while I’m working.’ It took him thirty seconds, less. He gave the boot back to her and sat on his high stool, arms crossed, regarding her.

  ‘Those are her pumps,’ he said. ‘The lady at number three. She left them a month ago and hasn’t been back for them. She’s there, or was there – I saw her a few days ago. I called over to her but she didn’t seem to hear me. She’s … a bit funny in the head, if you ask me.’ He paused, and she could see his eyes were grave, anxious.

  Giuli felt a chill come over her, a prickle at the back of her neck, the same feeling she’d had when the wind sprang up in the Via delle Terme. ‘But the child,’ she pleaded. ‘The child. They shouldn’t be leaving a child with her if she’s doolally, should they? Do you think the little girl’s safe?’

  He looked at her long and hard and then began to shake his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen the old lady with anyone but her fancy man.’

  ‘There’s a man? She lives with a man?’

  ‘He used to visit, take her out now and again. Tall guy. I’ve never seen a daughter or a granddaughter.’

  Giuli found herself breathless at the scenarios that unspooled in her head. An elderly couple keeping a child captive. Had they kept her quiet while the grandmother called her back? Was she sedated so neighbours wouldn’t hear? The small voice came back to her, whispering.

  ‘What should I do?’ she said. ‘What should I do?’

  The old cobbler looked at her a long moment, wiped his hands on his apron and picked up the paper bag containing the tiny pumps. He climbed off his stool and reached up for the long shutter that would close his shop.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, and the shutter rattled down.

  *

  They believed Luisa in the end, or believed her enough not to call the police. Hushing her, bustling her out of the cubicle: by that time the place was full, a North African orderly, two nurses and an unshaven doctor on duty.

  The redheaded nurse had marched her back to the nurses’ station. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’

  ‘Benedetta – I’ve known her since we were girls,’ Luisa said, only half a lie. ‘I heard –’ improvising ‘– her brother, halfbrother, Luca, told me she might not last the day. I didn’t want to leave it too late.’

  The redhead frowned, her broad freckled face sceptical. ‘Mr Bartolini hasn’t been in today,’ she said. ‘She is – well, she was – quite out of danger. It really doesn’t help when people don’t respect visiting hours or procedures.’

  ‘Why did the alarms g
o off?’ said Luisa.

  The woman looked at her. ‘Her heart rate was dipping,’ she said. ‘Her rehydration drip –’ She broke off, examining Luisa closely. ‘You didn’t touch anything, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Luisa was aghast. ‘Nothing, I’d barely – well, I took hold of her hand. She seemed to want –’ She didn’t know what Benedetta had wanted, in truth. It was Luisa who simply hadn’t wanted her to be alone, if it was the end. ‘I didn’t want her to feel alone,’ she said.

  The redhead narrowed her eyes, wary. ‘Well, no harm done, I suppose,’ she said grudgingly. ‘And she’s had her visitors. Her mother’s carer has just left.’

  ‘The Princess Salieri’s carer?’

  ‘Yes. She came out to look for you. She said she didn’t recognise your name when you asked to be admitted before. I mean, we can’t let just anyone in off the street.’

  ‘Well, you let her in,’ said Luisa.

  The woman looked at her stonily. ‘The patient knew her,’ she said.

  Sandro had said something about a housekeeper. The woman from the north, who hadn’t been in the village long and therefore was prepared to gossip. ‘I – I didn’t see anyone,’ said Luisa, because it seemed the safest thing to say. Then, as it occurred to her, ‘Surely she would have noticed if the drip had come loose?’

  Luisa tried to remember what Sandro had told her about the carer. Only that no one in the village would talk to her. That she had been a friend of Lotti’s.

  The redhead gave her a look. ‘What are you suggesting, Mrs –?’

  ‘Cellini,’ said Luisa resignedly, seeing something dawn in the nurse’s eyes.

  ‘You’re married to the detective, aren’t you? He was in the newspaper a few years ago, and you with him.’

  This city. It would have been the girl: it had been in the papers. A foreign girl held captive and Luisa had been with Sandro when they found her. It occurred to her that the maid, the carer, whoever, who’d been standing at the reception desk, who’d been interviewed by Sandro Cellini only a day ago, might have recognised the name.