The Abomination (5 page)

Kat pulled a pad towards her and jotted down notes as Father Cilosi continued. “Each garment is accompanied during robing by a specific prayer. When the priest puts on the tunic, for example, he recites the words ‘My soul shall rejoice in the Lord, for He hath clothed me in the garment of salvation, and with the vesture of gladness hath He covered me.' As he puts on the cuffs, first the right and then the left, he says, ‘Thy right hand, O Lord, is glorified in strength; Thy right hand, O Lord, hath vanquished the enemy.' The rituals, and the garments, are of deep significance to us. Whoever this woman is, she has absolutely no right to be defiling them like this.” He spoke calmly enough, but Kat thought she noticed a tremor of genuine revulsion in his voice.

“And can you summarise why that is, Father?” Piola asked. “The situation as regards women and the priesthood, I mean?”

“In a nutshell, the teaching of the Catholic Church, as set out by His Holiness, is that the Church simply has no authority to confer priestly ordination on women. It goes back to the original curse levied against Eve – in other words, it's a matter of divine law rather than Papal judgement. Hence any woman attempting to receive ordination, or to pass herself off as having been ordained, would be guilty of what His Holiness calls a ‘grave delict'. That is, she would be a kind of heretic.”

The word, vaguely medieval in its connotations, hung in the air. “And what would the penalty for that be?” Piola asked.

“Excommunication,” Father Cilosi said. “His Holiness is quite clear about that.”

“Meaning that to kill such a woman wouldn't be a mortal sin?” Kat said quietly. Piola glanced at her questioningly, then nodded for her to continue.

Father Cilosi had the grace to look a little discomfited. “In a purely theological sense, perhaps. But the Church teaches that murder is always against God's purpose, as well as man's laws.”

“But just so I'm clear, Father,” she pressed. “A woman who dresses up as a priest, even for fancy dress – she's the one who's committing the sin?”

“How would you feel if someone turned up to a party dressed in a stolen uniform of the Carabinieri?” he countered.

“Man or woman, the penalty would be a small fine. And it would be unlikely to lead to that person being murdered.”

He raised his hands. “If that is indeed what happened here.”

“Could she have been a genuine priest, but of another faith?” Piola suggested.

The priest considered. “If so, it isn't one that I know of. Some of the Protestant churches permit women clerics, of course, but their robes are slightly different. A Catholic cassock has thirty-three buttons, for example, to symbolise the thirty-three years of Christ's life. An Anglican cassock has thirty-nine, to symbolise the thirty-nine articles of their faith.” He caught Piola's expression. “These may seem small details, even petty ones perhaps. But they evolved over many centuries of custom and debate, and serve to remind every priest of the ancient, sacred traditions of our calling.”

“Capitano, check the number of buttons with the morgue. And get someone to check with the Protestant churches in the city, just in case,” Piola said to Kat. He slid another photograph towards the priest. “One final question, Father. Do you happen to know what these tattoos might represent?”

Father Cilosi took the picture Piola gave him, then busied himself finding a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket. “I've no idea,” he said eventually. “They seem vaguely reminiscent of occult symbols – but I should stress that's not my area of expertise. I could get you the name of someone who would know more, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Father,” Piola said. “That would be very helpful.”

“Not at all. And please call me if I can be of any further assistance.” Father Cilosi hesitated. “The bishop has asked me to convey that he regards this incident as deeply distressing for the faithful, and he hopes it can be brought to a speedy conclusion. As I'm sure you recall, a few years ago the issue of women's ordination threatened to become a divisive one for us. There are enough problems engulfing the Church at the moment without reawakening that particular controversy.”

“Indeed,” Piola said blandly. “Rest assured, Father, we'll do everything we can to get to the bottom of this poor woman's death.” He laid a faint emphasis on the last three words.

Father Cilosi was struck by a thought. “If you would like me to say a prayer for her? Or indeed for your investigation. . .”

“I'm sure she would be most grateful for any prayers you see fit to offer,” Piola said, moving him towards the door. “And in the meantime, the Carabinieri will continue to pursue a more secular approach.”

Kat spent an hour with tide tables, weather charts and maps of the lagoon, trying to understand where the body might have entered the water. As a Venetian, she'd grown up with the sea. But the
acqua alta
had complicated everything.

“There are just too many variables,” she told Piola. “We can assume our victim came from the lagoon, but it's the currents, not just the tides, that determine the flow of the water. Some of these sandbanks change their position every month.”

“So what's the answer?”

“I think we should talk to some fishermen. They'll be able to pinpoint the most likely place, and also tell us if they saw anything suspicious that night.”

“Good idea. I'll come with you.”

The Venetian lagoon is divided into the
laguna viva
, the part washed by the Adriatic tides, and the
laguna morta
, the more northerly inner or “dead” lagoon, a place of still, salty marshes where hunters catch wild ducks and eels. Reasoning that the body had almost certainly been washed in from the former, they caught the ferry to the fishing port of Chioggia, fifteen miles south of Venice, and went from boat to boat asking questions.

All the fishermen agreed that the body must have originated from somewhere within the long, thin sandbank of the Lido. Beyond that, it would have been washed further out to sea. It also became clear that anyone with local knowledge would have been perfectly well aware of that.

“When the
criminali
dump bodies, they take them five miles out,” a gnarled old fisherman called Giuseppe told Kat with a shrug. “That way they're never seen again. It's well known.”

“And who do they use to take them there? Is that well known too?”

Another shrug, even more eloquent, told her that, well known or not, there was no way he was going to share that information with her.

From then on she and Piola concentrated on asking about the area within the Lido. Did you see anything unusual around the fourth or fifth of January? Hear anything? Were there any unfamiliar boats around? They found that the fishermen – many of whom were deeply superstitious – were far more shocked by what their victim was wearing than the fact that she was dead, so they prefaced their questions by showing two pictures: the first a close-up of the corpse's face, taken by Hapadi in the morgue, and a second that showed her full-length in her priest's robes. Without exception the second picture prompted a double response – the right hand reaching for the forehead to make the sign of the cross, the left reaching for the testicles to make the
malocchio
, a gesture of protection from the evil eye.

Finally a young fisherman called Lucio gave them a breakthrough.

“The weather was bad that night,” he told them. “There was the high water coming, and snow . . . I decided to cut my losses and get back to my girl. She's in Venice, see, in Dorsoduro? So I took a short cut.”

“Show me,” Piola suggested, and the young man traced a finger across the chart.

“Here. Past the Isola di Poveglia.”

Piola nodded. “Go on.”

“No one fishes round Poveglia. People won't buy the fish – they say they've fed on human bones. And it's forbidden to land. The authorities claim it's because the building is unsafe, but everyone knows the real reason is that it's haunted.” He paused and lit a cigarette. “Anyway, as I passed, I saw lights. You know, moving, like torches. I think they were in the old tower.”

“Did you take a closer look?”

“What, on the eve of La Befana? No way.” Lucio shuddered. “I got the hell out of there.”

Piola patted him on the shoulder. “OK, that's useful. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” The young man hesitated. “Look, I got a ticket from you lot last month for not displaying my boat licence. I
had
the licence, but it had fallen off the holder. Any chance you can make the fine go away?”

“'Fraid not,” Piola said. “It doesn't work like that with me. Sorry. Mind if I take a cigarette?”

The other man shrugged dourly. “Be my guest.”

“It's your last one.”

“It's fine, I've got more.”

Piola smiled his thanks and took the packet.

“So,” he said when the two of them had climbed back onto dry land. “Poveglia. I suppose you know the stories about that place?”

“Some of them. Wasn't there a mental hospital there before it was abandoned?”

“For a while. But the fishermen believed it was cursed long before that. It was a
lazzaretto
originally – a plague island. To begin with, the city authorities buried the dead there: later, when the plague kept spreading, they tried to contain it by transporting anyone who showed symptoms out to Poveglia and dumping them in the plague pits before they were even dead. One doesn't suppose they had a very pleasant end. Not surprisingly, it gained a reputation for being haunted.” He sighed. “Why they eventually decided to build a lunatic asylum there, God only knows. It's abandoned now, of course – has been since the eighties.”

“Think we should take a look?”

“I certainly do.” Piola looked at the cigarette packet in his hand.

“I didn't know you smoked, sir.”

“I don't – not since New Year's, anyway. I've been promising my wife for years I'd give up. I was just curious about the make.” He held it out to her. What she'd taken for a packet of Camel was actually something called Jing Lin, its logo a horned goat on a yellow background but otherwise almost identical to the American brand. “Counterfeit. I doubt it's connected to our murder, but you never know.”

They debated how best to get out to Poveglia. Given the superstitiousness of the fishermen, it seemed unlikely any of them would be keen to offer a lift.

“Unless we agree to make Lucio's ticket go away,” Kat suggested.

Piola looked at her. For a moment he said nothing, and she found herself flushing. “I only meant. . .”

“I know what you meant,” he said, not unkindly. “You just wanted to get the job done. And I don't blame you for that. But that's how it starts – corners cut, deals done, favours offered or accepted.” He sounded sad rather than angry. “And before you know it, you've been done a favour that needs to be repaid, and then they control you. It happens to nine out of ten officers. And you know what? Most of them don't even care. To most, it's just – normal. The way we do things here.
Italy
. End of story.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Forget it. We'll call up a Carabinieri launch, and while we're waiting we can have some lunch. The fish restaurants round here are excellent, and after being on those boats I've got a hankering for some sea urchin pasta.”

“LET ME REMIND
you why you're here, Second Lieutenant,” Major Forster said briskly, fixing Holly with a level stare. “As you will know, this is the largest and most important US Army post south of the Alps. Through our power projection capability we provide stability, security and peace to an area of the world stretching from Africa to Iran. However, we have not always succeeded in being appreciated by the host community in which we serve.”

Translation
, Holly thought:
the locals hate our guts
.

“As a result, an extra Liaison Team was added late last year to further engage and integrate with the Italian population.” He pronounced it
Eye-talian
, to match
Eye-ran
. “This is a hearts and minds initiative which will be on-going until the new capability at Dal Molin base is complete.”

Translation: until the protestors go away
.

“As a native speaker attached to Liaison Officer Team Three, you are tasked with being the civilian-facing component of our military capability. As such you will embody at all times the integrity and professionalism of the US Military.”

Translation: personally I think your presence here a waste of my time and American taxpayers' money. But I've been told we need to cosy up to the natives, so get on with it and keep out of my way
.

“Yes, sir,” Holly said, saluting.

“Do not presume to think that because this mission is easy and safe it is unimportant or without valour,” Major Forster said, in a tone of voice which suggested that he thought exactly that. He returned her salute. “Carry on, Second Lieutenant.”

“Place is pretty quiet right now,” First Lieutenant Mike Breedon said apologetically as he walked her from Major Forster's office to the block in which their team was housed. “The troops are still rotating in and out of Afghanistan, of course, as we transition towards an advisory role. Plus there are still peace-keeping missions in Kosovo and Iraq. But like the major said, LNO-3 doesn't have a whole lot to do with that side – mostly we're dealing with community initiatives, the Italian media, even the protestors themselves. It's not the most exciting, but it is useful.”

An affable Virginian three years her senior, Mike was her team leader. She could tell immediately they were going to get along fine.

“This is where you'll work,” he said, gesturing to a desk and a computer. “I'm over there. Want to get set up? I have to prepare for a briefing, but I'll come back after and show you around properly.”