The Faces of Angels (37 page)

I walk up the gallery between the cases of weapons and the mounted cavalcade towards the window where she must have been standing, braced for her to jump out from behind a suit of armour. Expecting to hear her disembodied laugh.

‘Billy?' I stop. There's the soft pat-pat of rain against glass, but nothing else. Could she have mistaken my hand signal? Gone downstairs to meet me?

‘Billy, are you here?'

I walk a few more steps, to the window at the very end of the gallery, and when I look down I see the loggia across the courtyard below me, the archway where I was, empty. Could I have seen something else? A red flag or banner? I look around, but there's nothing like that, nothing red that could have been so close to the glass. And, besides, she waved. A flash of exasperation shoots through me. ‘Damn it, Billy,' I say out loud, then the door closes. I hear the thud as it hits the frame, and the click of a latch.

‘Billy, come on. Cut it out.' Anger ripples through the words now. She will probably call it ‘a sense of humour failure' but, between this and last night, I've about had enough.

Watery shadows worm their way across the floor, and I think of all the times Billy has snuck up on me. Remember how quiet she can be when she wants. Without meaning to, I edge towards the end of the gallery, looking for a way out. Usually there are connecting doors. But not here. This is just another wall of armour, iron balls attached to chains and studded with spikes, helmets with no faces behind them.

‘Billy! Stop it!' I shout. ‘I'm scared!'

But there's no reply.

My throat goes, dry and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I realize my hands are trembling and I clutch the strap of my bag harder to stop them, remembering the alley near the Carmine when I thought she was following me. When I saw her. And it wasn't her.

I slip one hand down inside the soft suede of my bag, feeling for my phone. All I have to do is get my hand around it, punch ‘1' and Pierangelo will hear me. My fingers hit my wallet, my new purse, my pencil case, all the other junk I keep, scrabbling, because a stifled, hot feeling is rising up in me. The walls feel as if they're sliding inward. Then a shadow moves, and I panic.

I whip around the horse in front of me, throw myself towards the door, and scream just once before my feet fly out from under me. The floor is slippery, the phone shoots out of my hand, and I skid into something heavy and metallic, bringing it crashing down with me as I fall.

Pierangelo comes right away. When he arrives, I am sitting in the museum administrator's office throwing what Mamaw would call ‘a hissy fit.' Specifically, I am insisting they call Pallioti. I've more or less threatened to sit here until they do.

‘Birdseed!' I announce to Pierangelo when he comes in. He stares at me and I hold my hands out, show him how it still clings to the arms of my sweater and soles of my shoes. ‘It was all over the floor! And I saw her,' I add, my voice rising dangerously. ‘I know I saw her.'

The administrator, a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and a tie with little lions on it, sits behind his desk looking worried. The head of security looks worried too. I did no damage to the suit of armour I pulled over, but, as far as my story goes, they're baffled. They just think I'm crazy, because no one can remember a woman fitting Billy's description either entering or leaving the Bargello this afternoon, especially not one wearing a red party dress. And they admit they have no idea where the birdseed came from.

I have been clutching a little pile of it in my palm, and Pierangelo finally persuades me to dribble it into a paper cup, but even then I won't surrender it to anyone but Pallioti. There's a sick, twisting feeling in my stomach, something writhing, and I need to see the
ispettore
the way, in my previous life, I sometimes needed to see a priest. When he arrives twenty minutes later, I am so relieved I actually start to cry.

Pallioti looks exactly the same as I remember him. I'm not even sure he isn't wearing the same suit and tie, soft nondescript grey and red silk. He pulls up a chair and watches me with his still, grey eyes, then, after Pierangelo has handed me his handkerchief, he says, ‘I wish I could welcome you back to Florence in happier circumstances, signora.'

I rub my hands across my eyes, trying to stop the tears that are streaming down my face. Pierangelo kneads my shoulder.

‘Thank you for coming,' he says to Pallioti, who inclines his head, but doesn't take his eyes off me.

Pallioti watches me the same way he did when I was lying flat on my back in the hospital two years ago, and for some reason I find his gaze calming, like a cool hand on my forehead. Eventually he says, ‘I only know what Signor Sanguetti told me on the phone. Why don't you tell me what happened yourself?'

And so I do. Haltingly at first, and then faster, as if the words are a ball bouncing downstairs, I tell him about last night, and today. And then I tell him everything I know about Billy, which I realize isn't actually very much. And only what she's told me, which may or may not be true. When I'm done, I hand him the paper cup.

‘It was on the floor,' I say. ‘In the armour gallery. I slipped on it. It wasn't there when I went in.'

Pallioti looks at the cup, his eyes impassive, then he glances at the museum administrator and the security guard. ‘Perhaps,' he says, ‘gentlemen, you'd be so good as to excuse us for a moment?'

At first, I think they're going to protest, especially the poor administrator, who's not only seen his Good Friday evening evaporate before his eyes, but now is being kicked out of his own office. In the end, however, all he does is shrug and mutter, ‘
Certo
.' He glances at me on his way out, clearly thinking I'm a mad woman and wondering why on earth I couldn't have gone to some other museum, the Opera del Duomo or the Accademia, if I wanted to smash into things and pitch fits. The door closes behind them, and Pallioti glances at the cup in his hand, then at me.

‘Now,' he says, ‘Signora Warren, why don't you tell me what it really is you're so worried about?'

I stare at him, his still, pale face, the thin-lipped straight line of his mouth. ‘I told her,' I say. ‘I told her everything, about the nun who was killed, and the nurse. And Ginevra Montelleone.' I try not to look at Pierangelo as I say this, and I know a red blush of shame is creeping up my neck and into my face. He told me, and then I told Billy. Like a little kid, I can't even be trusted with a secret. ‘She knows about the red bags, and the birdseed.'

Pallioti doesn't move, doesn't register any reaction at all. I can't tell if he's angry or not, that I know all this in the first place, and that I've told someone else. ‘I don't know what she's doing or why,' I add finally. ‘But I'm scared.'

Pallioti glances at Pierangelo, his face opaque.

‘Of what?' Pallioti's voice is quiet. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and looks at me. ‘Can you tell me, Signora Warren, exactly what it is you're scared of?'

‘I—' Something is still writhing and twisting in my stomach, and I am afraid that if I even whisper it I will make it real, that it will jump to life like a spark exposed to wind.

‘Signora?' Pallioti asks, his eyes not leaving my face.

‘What if the person I saw wasn't Billy? What if someone else sent me the text, and waved to me from the window? Wanted me to go up there?'

‘Who?'

I shake my head. ‘I don't know.'

‘And why would they do that?'

‘I don't know!' My voice is almost hysterical, and I'm afraid I'm going to start to cry again.

Pallioti pats in his pocket with his free hand, comes out with a rumpled cigarette, looks around the office, and thinks better of it. His lizard eyes flick from the little pile of seeds in the paper cup to my face.

‘I can understand why what happened to this girl, Ginevra Montelleone, must be deeply upsetting to you,' he says. ‘To you especially. But from what you have told me, I see nothing that leads me to conclude that these incidents are truly related. I think it is far more likely,' he adds gently, ‘that your friend is making some kind of practical joke.'

‘Billy wouldn't do that!' The protest springs out of my mouth, but even before I finish speaking the words I wonder if they're true. She wouldn't, would she? Why?

‘I will have the seeds checked, of course,' Pallioti is saying. ‘To see if they are the same kind that was found on Signorina Montelleone's body. But from what I can tell,' he shakes the cup, ‘this looks like sunflower and maize. Corn. The kind of thing sold in snacks. Do you have your phone with you?'

I nod, pull it out of my bag and hand it to him. It may be broken, I'm not sure.

‘I didn't save the text. I thought it was from Piero.

' Pallioti glances at him. ‘But you didn't send it?'

Pierangelo shakes his head.

‘I'll have our people look at it,' Pallioti says. ‘Sometimes, you never know, in the memory…' He shrugs and drops the little silver lozenge into his pocket, probably squishing the cigarette. ‘She had your number, of course?'

‘Yes. Probably.' I don't remember if I ever actually gave it to Billy. But I lent her my phone more than once, so I assume she knew it.

Pallioti nods. ‘I'm sorry, signora,' he says. ‘I know it is unpleasant to hear, but it sounds as if your room-mate is playing a trick on you, an especially disturbing one. You said you told her what you knew about the Montelleone girl, and also about what happened to the other women. Does she know also what happened to you, how your husband died? You told her that as well?'

‘Yes. Sort of. Well,' I add, thinking of Billy standing in the rain at Fiesole, ‘she discovered it. She ran a Google search on me, and then she looked up the newspaper articles.' Or went through my drawers, I think. But I leave that out.

‘And when was the last time you actually saw—what is her name? Billy?'

‘Saturday,' I say, ‘in the piazza at Santo Spirito. At the street party. We left at around eleven o'clock and she was still there.' At least this is something I can answer, something concrete I can get right or wrong. And then I remember the rain, the wind-shield wipers, the nuns running across the street, and correct myself. ‘No,' I say. ‘It was Sunday. Sunday evening. We, well, I, saw her on the street. We were in the car, she didn't see me.' Pallioti nods.

‘Where was this?'

‘Just near our building. Santo Spirito. Via Sassinelli.'

‘But,
cara
,' Pierangelo interjects, ‘we got our invitation to her Easter party on, what, Tuesday? So she must have mailed them on Monday. And she's been to the apartment. You know that. Maybe as recently as yesterday.'

He's right. I take a breath, feeling as though I am slowly drifting back down to earth, as though Pierangelo and Pallioti between them are pulling me down so I can find solid ground underneath my feet.

‘She was definitely there,' I tell Pallioti, ‘either on Wednesday night after I left, or yesterday morning. Or maybe both. She changed the picture. In the collage in the living room. And she was there last night.'

‘But you didn't see her? You didn't actually see anyone?'

I shake my head. ‘No. I didn't actually see anyone. That's right.'

‘Then how can you be sure she was there?'

‘I smelled her.'

I have not mentioned this before, to either of them, and now both Pierangelo and Pallioti are staring at me.

‘You smelled her?' Pallioti says. And I nod.

‘My perfume,' I explain. ‘Pierangelo buys me special soap and oil and perfume. From the Farmacia Santa Novella. And Billy used it. She uses my things. My perfume is acacia, and last night, when I was standing in the hall, I smelled it. It came from the other side of the door.'

There's a silence while both of them digest this, then Pierangelo asks, gently, ‘Couldn't it have been you,
cara
? Your skin you were smelling? You use the perfume too.'

I nod again and reach for his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly I feel incredibly tired. ‘Yes,' I say finally. ‘It could have been me.'

‘You didn't sleep much last night, did you?' Piero runs his hand across the crown of my head, smoothing my hair the way you smooth a child's. Pallioti gets to his feet, starts to reach for his cigarette again and stops again.

‘I will tell you what I'm going to do,' he says. ‘We'll have a look for Mrs Kalczeska. What is her first name? On her passport?'

‘Anthea.' I hear Billy's voice, as loud as if she's in the room. ‘She uses Billy, but her real name is Anthea. I don't know what's on her passport. I've never seen it. Signora Bardino might. She must have records. For the school.'

Pallioti nods. ‘If she's staying in a hotel, she has to register. We'll run a check. Siena, Lucca, Ravenna, Venice, Rome. The obvious places.'