City of Devils: A Novel (41 page)

They sat around the large table, now finally cleared of the Madagascan skulls. They were silent at first, each of them in their own world but thinking of the same thing – murder. Lombroso stroked his beard thoughtfully and was the first to speak.

‘It seems to me that the first question we need to answer is whether or not the murders of DeClichy and indeed Rosa Bruno were committed by the same person as the other killings.’

‘The evidence suggests that they were. After all, there were identical notes left at the scene,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘Really, Ottolenghi, what have I told you so many times?’ Lombroso said impatiently. ‘You must remember to challenge all that you hear. Never take things at face value. It is the first rule of scientific policing.’

‘We have not seen the last note,’ James said. He knew that he should have allowed Ottolenghi to finish but he could not help himself. ‘It may not be identical. We only have Machinetti’s word for that and he is by no means reliable.’

Lombroso nodded approvingly. ‘Indeed, Murray, that is so. Anything else?’

‘We cannot be certain that there
are
two killers. It seems too much of a coincidence even though the method of despatch used was different. There did not seem to be the same care taken with the mutilation – after all, disembowelment is a messy affair and—’ Suddenly he noticed Madame Tarnovsky who sat, looking pale and drawn. He had forgotten himself in his excitement.

She looked up and smiled wanly. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Dr Murray. I knew of the method. I overheard some of the hotel staff gossiping about it. It is just a little hard to hear it again. One learns to detach oneself as a scientist but still, when it is someone one knows . . .’

‘I am so sorry. I did not wish to upset you.’

She shook her head. ‘It is of no consequence. These matters must be discussed if justice is to be done.’ She turned to Lombroso. ‘So, Cesare, if we really have two murderers rather than one then we must ask ourselves why anyone would wish to kill Dr DeClichy. He was such a gentle sort of person and I cannot believe that anyone would wish him dead.’

Lombroso sighed and looked down at his hands, folded in front of him on the table. ‘I wish I had not been so dismissive of him.’

Madame Tarnovsky leaned forwards and put her hand on his. ‘Cesare, this is not your fault.’

He shook his head. ‘But if I had listened to DeClichy perhaps I could have saved him.’

‘You do not know that. What was it he was going to say to you?’

Lombroso shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Well then,’ said Madame Tarnovsky, ‘it could be unconnected or perhaps it was something you could not have helped him with. Conjecture is pointless. As a scientist, you of all people should know that.’

At that, Lombroso seemed to recover himself. ‘Indeed you are right, dear Madame Tarnovsky, as always. Facts are what we need. So, what do we know for certain?’

James took a deep breath. It was now or never. ‘The killer is unlikely to have started with Soldati.’

Lombroso stared at him. ‘What do you mean, Murray?’

‘Well, the mutilations for the first three murders were clean, neat even. The killer must have practised.’

‘I think it unlikely that a morally insane killer would be that organised,’ Lombroso said dismissively. ‘Anything else?’

James felt deflated. It had seemed like an obvious lead to him.

‘We know that someone is killing people in order to test you, Professor,’ Ottolenghi said.

Lombroso looked at him. ‘But does that really get us anywhere?’

‘I think it does, Cesare!’ Madame Tarnovsky said.

‘How?’ he asked.

‘Well, if we can work out why he feels the need to test you then we should be able to gain a better understanding of his overall motive,’ she replied.

‘That does not feel very scientific. Wouldn’t we be better off looking at the physical evidence?’ Ottolenghi suggested. ‘Or perhaps taking up James’s idea and looking for evidence of practice.’

Madame Tarnovsky shook her head. Even she would not support him over Lombroso, thought James. Ottolenghi looked at him and shrugged. At least he had tried.

‘That cannot be ignored, of course,’ she said, ‘but sometimes one needs to understand the way a criminal’s mind works in order to catch him. Am I not right, Cesare? After all, your work covers personality as well as physical attributes, does it not?’

Lombroso nodded slowly. ‘So we should think of reasons for these tests.’

‘Indeed,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘Let us create a list of possible motives, then. Mr Murray, will you be our scribe?’

He agreed, though he did not feel particularly enthusiastic having had his suggestion dismissed so conclusively.

‘Greed is one of the most common motives for murder,’ Ottolenghi said.

‘That doesn’t apply in this case, surely?’ James argued. ‘None of the victims had much in the way of material possessions and there was no sign of robbery.’

‘I do not think that slaughter such as this could have a motive as commonplace as greed,’ Lombroso said. ‘I am still of the view that this is the work of a person suffering from moral insanity.’

‘Revenge is a motive that could come from a lack of moral sense and would sit well with the actions of our killer,’ Madame Tarnovsky said. ‘It is also fairly common in the criminal, as you have said yourself.’

‘Well then,’ Lombroso said, with something close to his old certainty, ‘clearly we are looking for a morally insane person, hell-bent on revenge of some sort. He is using these murders to test me and the mutilations are in some way meant to reflect or symbolise my work. As the morally insane criminal almost always shares the physical characteristics of the born criminal he will resemble atavistic or primitive man and possess a large set of jaws, facial asymmetry, unequal ears and a scanty beard – assuming, as I believe we can, that the culprit is a man.’

‘So surely all that is needed is to persuade Tullio and Machinetti to round up all the men in the city who have such characteristics and have some kind of connection to you,’ Ottolenghi suggested. James noticed that he seemed to be wearing the expression of someone who did not quite believe in what he had just said. Frankly, he didn’t blame him.

Lombroso sat back in his chair, a triumphant grin on his face. ‘Indeed, there you have it – criminal anthropology in action. Once we have tracked this brute down I can use the case in the next edition of my book. I could open an institute for the study of the morally insane. That should shut Gemelli up for good. And it will wipe the smirk from my critics’ faces once and for all. Ottolenghi, ring for Sofia. We need coffee. We will need our wits about us to design a trap for our monster.’

Ottolenghi and James exchanged glances of concern. Something told James that the solution to this particular puzzle might not turn out to be as simple as Lombroso seemed to think. James supported some of the professor’s ideas and his work but he had his doubts about other parts of it, particularly when it came to solving crimes. It seemed too simplistic just to give a list of physical characteristics and expect the murderer simply to emerge from his hiding place and match the description given. James had seen killers before, at the asylum. They shared no resemblance to one another.

He worried that the professor was merely wasting time. There were solid clues to follow and surely they were more likely to lead to the killer being caught than designing some convoluted trap using the criminal type theory as a basis? James made a decision. Perhaps Lombroso was right. He was experienced in criminal matters, after all. But, just in case he was wrong, there would be nothing amiss in doing some investigation of his own. What harm could it possibly do?

23

Forensic medicine should recognise that in the case of the criminal man who is in constant struggle against society, tattoos – like scars – are professional characteristics
.

Lombroso, 1876 p 62

Having finally extricated himself from the museum, James was on his way to see Sofia. For once they would have a whole precious evening together. They could talk and laugh and pretend, just for a few hours, that they were a normal couple. James bought some flowers from a stall on the Via Po and when he arrived Sofia greeted him with a kiss and a cry of appreciation for his gift.

‘Sit, sit,’ she said, ‘I have cooked something special for you:
coniglio con peperoni
, rabbit with peppers using my mother’s recipe.’ James grinned. He had already noticed an enticing aroma coming from a pot on her tiny stove. ‘And to start I have prepared
agnolotti al sugo di arrosto
, pasta filled with veal!’

James looked at her standing before him, beaming at him proudly, and felt a surge of joy as if he had been confined in a cell and had suddenly been let out into the warmth of the sun. He walked over to Sofia and seized her in his arms, whirling her round and then kissing her.

‘I love you, Sofia Esposito!’

She smiled at him but in response said only, ‘Enough, let’s eat before it gets cold.’

James wondered if he would ever hear her tell him that she loved him too. Looking at her expression he decided that it would be best not to pursue it. He merely nodded and did as she suggested.

The food was sublime. It was accompanied by a carafe of familiar-tasting wine. Sofia was a little coy about its origins saying only that it was a Dolcetto. James suspected it came from Paolo’s vineyard via Lombroso’s cellar but he did not care. The pasta parcels were fragrant with rosemary and garlic and Sofia showed him how to eat them as her mother had taught her. The steaming pasta was covered with a little of the wine and then with a fork she fished out the parcels one by one and put them in his mouth, and he did the same for her. Then she served the tender rabbit with the sweet and aromatic peppers. As they ate they sipped at their wine and talked of their early childhoods when each of them had been happy.

Later, when they were sipping
grappa
and drinking coffee, James leaned forward and took Sofia’s hand. ‘What I said earlier . . .’

‘Let us not speak of that now,
caro
.’

‘I just wanted to tell you how happy you make me.’

Sofia nodded. ‘I know,
caro
I know.’

He smiled and shook his head.

‘What is it?’ Sofia asked.

‘It feels wrong somehow to be so happy when such terrible things are going on.’

‘Perhaps, as the latest victim was a gentleman, there will be more attention paid,’ Sofia said.

‘Perhaps, but I cannot help but feel that we are in some way responsible. If we had taken more notice of him then maybe . . .’

She nodded. ‘I understand, James, but you could not have known what would happen to him. He was just unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Perhaps you’re right but I’m sure he was trying to tell us something before he died.’

She shook her head. ‘Where I come from there are only three reasons for killing someone – revenge, greed or fear.’

‘So which could be applied to DeClichy?’ James asked.

‘Was he likely to have wronged someone?’

‘I doubt it, and he didn’t strike me as being wealthy.’

‘So we are left with fear – someone was afraid of him.’

‘I can’t think why anyone should be afraid of someone so meek and mild.’

‘Ah,
caro
, fear is not always rational.’

‘But still, why would anyone fear him?’

‘It might not be him but something he knew that frightened them. In the underworld there is only one way to deal with informers,’ Sofia said, drawing a hand across her throat dramatically.

He thought for a moment and realised she was right. DeClichy had been trying to tell them something. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. ‘Yes, but I have no idea what he might have known.’

‘Well then, that is where to start, is it not?’ said Sofia, decisively.

James pulled her towards him and held her close. She had cut through his confusion in a moment and he felt better already. ‘I don’t know what I would do without you. You help me to see so clearly.’

Later, as he lay in Sofia’s bed, James tossed and turned, yet again unable to sleep. His mind was haunted by images of DeClichy lying in the morgue, pale and lifeless. When he finally managed to drop off it was only fitfully. In his dreams DeClichy opened his eyes and sat up as he was examining him. So vivid was the sight, he fancied he could sense the smell of the place, the sharp aroma of disinfectant mingling with the stench of death. DeClichy clutched his wrist and looked at him, his eyes full of sadness. ‘Remember the news,’ he whispered and a single tear ran slowly down his face. It was the colour of fresh blood.

James woke with a start. Sofia sighed gently and turned towards him.
‘
Che cosa c’è
?’ she murmured.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing, my darling. Go back to sleep.’

He lay awake until the sun came up, DeClichy’s plea echoing through his mind. Remember the news . . . what could that mean? It invoked a memory, though, something that had been driven to the back of his brain by all that had happened. He was certain that it held the key to the murders. All he had to do was remember – and that was the one thing that eluded him.