The Abomination (18 page)

“Interesting,” he said. “I wonder what it means.”

But she already knew. She felt a rush of exhilaration as everything slotted into place.

“The reason those particular symbols were
under
the blood spray, unlike the others, was because Jelena Babić drew them on the hospital wall herself, before she celebrated Mass. They're symbols of her faith. The killer couldn't erase them, and he knew they might lead us to the truth, so he added the other designs himself, to throw us off the scent. Jelena was no Satanist. She was, or believed herself to be, the real deal – a woman, a Croatian, and a Catholic priest.” She shook her head. “The misdirection nearly worked, too. I assumed that Barbara Holton's contact with the Americans at Caserma Ederle had no bearing on her death, because there was no connection with priests or the occult. But there
was
a link to Croatia. She was asking for information about a Croatian general called Dragan Korovik, who just happens to be facing trial at The Hague for war crimes. If the US Military thought he might reveal something they'd rather was kept hidden, it would explain why they're trying to cover their tracks.”

“But why was Jelena Babić on Poveglia in the first place?” Piola asked. “Why was she saying a Mass there? Why did the killer murder Barbara Holton when she didn't even have the information she'd requested – and according to the officer you spoke to, didn't have much chance of getting it, either? There are more questions than answers here, Capitano.”

“I think we need to lean on the Americans at Caserma Ederle. We need to establish exactly what the answers to Barbara Holton's questions would have been.”

“OK.” Piola got to his feet. “But in that case, this may get political. We'd better talk to our prosecutor first.”

“We've had one assigned?”

“As of last Friday. Benito Marcello. Know him?”

She shook her head.

“Me neither. Meet me at the court offices at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, and we'll see if he's in agreement.”

He took a coat from behind the door – Armani, she noticed, in lightweight dark blue cashmere, and hung on a proper hanger rather than just the coat hook. “And now it's time to get out of here,” he added unnecessarily. “Coming?”

There was a pause. She found herself hoping that he'd suggest getting a drink and perhaps some food before they went to their respective homes.

Then she mentally kicked herself. It was Sunday, and the poor man had barely seen his family all week. “I'm going to catch up with some paperwork,” she said. “See you in the morning, sir.”

PROSECUTOR BENITO MARCELLO
was young, good-looking, well dressed, and frankly incredulous.

“You think this is some kind of American conspiracy?” he said disbelievingly. “You're crazy.”

“Many of the indications do point to a multi-national dimension, sir,” Piola said judiciously.

“Oh, please,” Marcello scoffed. “You've failed to gather any hard evidence whatsoever, Colonel, so you've simply filled the gaps with ridiculous speculation. And now you want to subpoena the US Army!” He shook his head. “You Carabinieri. I don't know how you do it.”

The reference to the stereotype of institutional stupidity was subtle, but no less effective for that. Kat felt her cheeks burn.

To his credit, her boss seemed unfazed. “We're not advancing any one theory more than another at the moment, sir. But we think it's important to follow every lead before the preliminary hearing.”

Kat waited. She knew only too well that the prosecutor had the power to direct their investigations in whichever way he chose. Marcello would then lay the results of their investigations before a court; only if the court agreed with him that there was enough
prima facie
evidence to charge someone could she and Piola
officially
begin gathering evidence. Which meant that, in theory, any investigative work done before that point would then have to be repeated. It was a crazily complex system and didn't inspire confidence: for one thing, many cases never resulted in prosecutions, even though they had already taken up a great deal of court time, and secondly, it was effectively up to the individual prosecutor which cases were pursued and which were not.

“Let me propose an alternative scenario,” Marcello said crisply. “We have two female foreigners, one American and one Croatian, sharing a hotel room in our beautiful city. We have an obscene ceremony in a remote location, decorated with sacrilegious and occult symbols. We have the ultimate desecration of the Mass by one of them, wearing a priest's robes. All thoroughly unsavoury, but no doubt a thrill to those of a certain disposition – and when we ask what kind of disposition these two women had, we learn that they were the sort of people who pursue elaborate conspiracy theories. We learn that they frequent dubious websites and choose to lurk in dark corners of the internet, where such things grow unfettered. And then we discover, too, that they were seen looking for a prostitute – a very specific prostitute; no doubt one who shares their particular tastes.”

He paused, and with a sinking feeling Kat realised where he was heading with this.

“Perhaps they have a row, these two women, between lovers. Perhaps one of them decides she isn't keen on sharing their bed with a prostitute after all. There was a ceremony, sexual in nature; exciting and illicit, yes, but perhaps the participants were not equally willing . . . The American, let's say, kills the Croatian. Later, filled with remorse, she kills herself in the room they shared, toppling out of the window as she does so. This, it seems to me, is far more plausible than the conspiracy story that you have dreamt up, and leaves far fewer loose ends.” Marcello knitted his fingers together and placed his hands on his desk, nodding with the satisfaction of a man who is rather impressed – not for the first time – by his own brilliance.

“Two beds,” Kat said.

Marcello looked surprised that she'd had the temerity to speak. “I beg your pardon, Capitano?”

“You said ‘their bed'. But these women didn't share a bed. There were twin beds in the hotel room, and both of them had been used. There was nothing at all, in fact, to suggest that they were lesbians.”

The prosecutor made a dismissive gesture. “Beds can be pushed together.”

Another criticism sometimes levelled at the Italian legal system is that it encourages prosecutors to devise preposterously lurid theories, since at the time of devising them they are not required to back them up with hard evidence – indeed, the more lurid the better, since it helps to ensure that they can proceed to the next stage. The prosecutors at the trial of the American student Amanda Knox, whom they alleged had forced her flatmate Meredith Kercher into a violent and deadly sex game, had attracted just such criticisms from the international media.

“Besides,” Marcello added, “even if they hadn't been intending to share a bed, they may have done so in a mood of experimentation. Women are more fluid about such things than men, I believe. Perhaps being in Venice persuaded them to try something out, possibly for the first time. . .”

Kat stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Fury flushed her cheeks. She was, she knew, about to blow her own career before it had barely begun, by telling Avvocato Marcello just what she thought of his theory.

“If it happened as you say, she managed to shoot herself in the shower, then walk to the window and shoot herself again,” Piola said quickly. “Using a pillow as a silencer. And weighing her own body down with her laptop in the process, to make sure it didn't float.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Indeed. So I take it, Avvocato, that you would like us to re-dredge the canal to see if we can find the gun, the presence of which below the hotel window is essential to your theory?”

Marcello paused. “Not
essential
, Colonel. It is perfectly possible that the
acqua alta
has swept the gun along the canal bed and out to sea. But yes, you should certainly concentrate your efforts on looking for the weapon. And not, repeat not, on any supposed internet aspects, conspiracy theories, or – heaven forbid – unauthorised approaches to the US Military.”

Piola nodded. “Indeed, that's very clear. Thank you for your time, Avvocato.”

THE VENETIAN DIALECT
is rich in words of scatological abuse, and Kat managed to employ about four of them even before they'd reached the street.

Piola was more sanguine. “It's a useful test. If he thinks his ridiculous sex-game scenario is plausible, so might a jury. We'll look for his weapon. If nothing else, it'll help to rule it out. Set up a briefing for the divers, will you?”

Back at Campo San Zaccaria, however, they received the news that someone was waiting for them. “He won't give his name,” Francesco Lotti told them. “Said he'd talked to you before. I've put him in Room Two.”

In the interview room they found the young fisherman from Chioggia who'd told them about the lights on Poveglia. He was looking nervous.

“Lucio, isn't it?” Piola greeted him. “How can we help you?”

The fisherman kneaded his fingers. “There's something I didn't mention last time,” he said anxiously.

“Yes?”

“When I told you about Poveglia . . . I didn't tell you that I saw a boat as well.”

“A boat? Did you recognise it?”

Lucio nodded. “Of course. I know all the boats. And I've seen this one round there before.”

“Go on.”

“It belongs to Ricci Castiglione. But you must swear not to tell anyone it was me who told you.” He hesitated. “He goes there a lot, if you see what I mean. And not just to fish.”

“Cigarettes?” Piola asked shrewdly.

Lucio nodded again.

“Is he the source of those Jin Ling you smoke?”

“Yes, he is,” Lucio said, clearly surprised.

“And what else does he bring in?”

A shrug.

“Is he connected? You know what I'm talking about, Lucio.”

Reluctantly, Lucio nodded his head. “I believe so.”

“Why have you come forward now? You must know it could put you in danger.”

“I know Mareta, his wife,” Lucio said awkwardly. “She's not a bad woman – she has nothing to do with what he does. But now he's gone missing. And she knows enough to know she isn't meant to call the police. So she asked me if I'd speak to you for her.” His eyes went to the door, suddenly fearful. “In Chioggia everyone knows when someone goes to the police station. She thinks it will be safer here in Venice.”

That made sense. Chioggia was a notoriously close-knit community, a fact reflected in the number of families with identical surnames.

“And does Mareta have any idea where her husband might have disappeared to?”

“No. But I do. He has a
cavana
, a lock-up boatshed, just out of town. I've been there to buy cigarettes.”

“Show us on a map,” Piola said. “And, Lucio – we do have to take an official statement. But we won't tell anyone in Chioggia that it was you who told us.”

When Lucio had gone, Kat and Piola looked at each other.

“An organised crime connection,” Piola said. “This gets murkier and murkier, Capitano.”

“But if there
is
such a connection – if we choose to pursue it – it doesn't fit with Avvocato Marcello's lovers'-tiff theory,” she pointed out. “We'd be doing the exact opposite of what he told us to do, in fact, which is to look for the gun with which Barbara Holton supposedly killed herself.”

Piola nodded.

“Screw it,” he said at last. “One of the sergeants can brief the diving team. They're not going to find anything, anyway. Let's get down to Chioggia.”

Ricci's
cavana
was the last in a row of a tumbledown boatsheds just to the south of town. It looked more like a marine scrapyard, Kat thought to herself, than a storage area. Half-rotted fishing boats, scraps of nylon fishing-net, old crab pots and rusting fish tanks littered the spaces between the sheds. The whole place stank of spilt diesel and fish guts, and the ground underfoot was iridescent with scales.

Although it wasn't yet lunchtime, there wasn't a soul to be seen around any of the neighbouring lock-ups.

“Were they expecting us?” Piola wondered aloud. “And if so – now, specifically, or just in general?”

Ricci's shed had once been painted a cheery dark blue. Now, rust poked through the peeling paint. Piola rapped on the steel door. There was no answer. Carefully, he slid the door back, wincing as it scraped on the concrete floor.

Inside, it was just as messy as outside. They edged past a skiff raised up on trestles and found themselves in a dimly lit area Ricci had clearly used for storing the crabs he caught. Four large steel tanks, each about five feet square and four high, gave off a stench of brackish seawater.

“Dear God,” Piola said suddenly, crossing himself. Kat followed his gaze.

Sticking upright out of one of the tanks were a man's feet, still clad in fishermen's rubber shoes. Kat went to see where the rest of him was, ignoring Piola's words of warning. For a moment she couldn't make sense of it – the crab tank had to be deeper than it was, or those stones somehow had to have been piled on top of the body, or—

Then the stones moved, and she realised what she was looking at. She gave a cry and stepped back just in time; as the bile reached her throat, she was able to turn her head away and avoid contaminating the tank with her vomit. But the image of those crabs would stay with her forever: dozens of them, like tiny, implacable Hermann tanks, shifting uneasily, trying to nudge and pull each other out of the way, their feathery claws buried deep in flesh, ripping it apart, as if the man's face had exploded from within. One eye socket had been picked clean as an eggcup, right down to the bone; and the throat was now no more than a few pieces of skin flapping around grey vertebrae. She'd seen, too, the way one of the larger crabs had lifted its thick right claw towards its mouth, a morsel of ragged white meat held delicately in its pinchers . . .