The Faces of Angels (41 page)

Pallioti pulls an empty coffee cup across the table, taps his cigarette ash into it and says, ‘Should have told us what, exactly, signora? That you and Signora Kalczeska had decided to open a detective agency, perhaps?'

‘No!' I have the sudden sense that, without my realizing it, everything has slipped out of control. And I have a horrible idea of how this must look from their side of the table. ‘That isn't true,' I say. ‘Honestly. I would never do anything like that.'

‘You went to the candlelight vigil for Ginevra Montelleone.'

‘That's true, but I told you, only because I wanted to pay my respects.' There's a whiny, defensive edge to my voice that even I find distasteful. ‘Billy knew some friends of hers, of Ginevra's, from the university. We go to lectures there.' I'm trying to make this better, but I'm not sure I'm succeeding. ‘But that stuff,' I wave at the envelope, wishing it would miraculously disappear, ‘the rest of it, I kept the articles, the pictures, for myself. That's all. I never showed it to her. Billy didn't even see it.'

‘Are you sure?' Francesca Giusti leans across the table towards me. ‘You've said she used your things, your make-up, your perfume. How can you be sure she didn't go through your drawers? See all this, and decide to do some “investigating” on her own?'

‘I—' The words stutter and die in my throat. I can't be sure. And we all know it.

Smoke wreathes around Pallioti's head. If it bothers Francesca Giusti, she doesn't let on. Instead, she watches me, her expression both attentive and deliberately non-judgemental, like a shrink's. I resist the impulse to squirm in my chair.

‘You must realize, Signora Warren,' Pallioti says, ‘that as much as we may understand, and even sympathize with your interest, the police are not sympathetic to those who meddle with the law.'

‘I told you, I've never done anything, I was—' The more I say, the worse this seems, but I don't know what else to do, other than try to explain. ‘Curious,' I say finally. ‘I was curious.' I swallow, trying to make it sound less obscene than it does. ‘I wanted to know what had happened to the other women. To the women Karel Indrizzio attacked before me. I wanted to know, exactly, how they were killed.'

‘Why?' Francesca Giusti asks it so quietly that at first I'm not even sure I've heard her. Her fingernails are clipped short, and painted deep red, the thumbs faintly spade-shaped, and I concentrate on her hands, which are completely still as she holds a gold pen above a leather pad she hasn't opened.

‘Because—' I am seeing Eleanora's Darnelli's throat. Benedetta's folded hands. The tiny feathered body of the gold-finch resting on Caterina Fusarno's stomach.

‘Because?' Francesca Giusti asks.

I raise my eyes and look at her.

‘Because I should have been one of them.'

She looks at me, Pallioti's smoke drifting between us. Then she lowers her gaze, traces the edge of her pad with the pen tip and nods. ‘
Certo,
' she says.

Pallioti waits a second before he gets to his feet, taps the envelope with his index finger. ‘Where did you get this material?' he asks.

‘The library.' I say it too quickly. ‘Mainly,' I add. ‘Some from the internet.'

‘Not the crime-scene photographs.'

He stares at me and I stare back at him. It doesn't take Einstein to figure out that my source must be Pierangelo, but I'm damned if I'm going to say so, and cost whoever his contacts are in the morgue and the police their jobs. This whole thing is awful enough. Billy is dead, probably because of me. That's clearly what Pallioti thinks, anyways; that I urged her to play girl detectives. That we went looking for trouble and found it.

It isn't true, of course. But it does look as though Billy was right on one count; that whoever this creep is, he's aware of me. That must be how he fastened on her. He looked at me, and saw Billy.

The realization seeps into my head like an ink stain. She tried to warn me, she told me I didn't take him seriously enough. But in the end it wasn't me who was in danger.

Pallioti grinds his cigarette into the coffee cup, pulls out his chair and sits. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table.

‘Let me tell you what I think,' he says. ‘I think you developed a little extra-curricular interest, that somehow you thought your own experience might give you some special insight into whoever killed Ginevra Montelleone.'

‘That is not true.'

‘I sincerely hope not. Because if it is, it was a very, very foolish idea. And a dangerous one.'

Pallioti leans back in his chair and looks at me. Then he says, ‘I would have thought you, of all people, might have understood that. First a husband, then a room mate. You're becoming a dangerous woman to know, Signora Warren.'

The words hit like a slap.

I am struggling not to burst into tears, pressing my nails into my palm to make it hurt, to make little stigmata marks the way I used to when I was young and about to get a shot at the doctor's office, reminding myself that no matter what, Jesus' pain was always worse than mine.

‘Thorcroft,' I say finally. ‘I don't use the name Warren any more.'

Pallioti picks up his pen. ‘Then tell me,' he says, ‘Signora Thorcroft, if you can, about the last time you saw Signora Kalczeska.'

‘It was in the street, as we drove by, on the night of Palm Sunday.'

‘But not to speak to? You didn't speak to her then?'

‘No. I waved, but she didn't see us.'

‘And she was wearing?'

I close my eyes, hear the slap-slap of the wipers, see the nuns run across the road, the tall, blurry shape through the window.

‘I think a raincoat. It's long, and pink. Maybe her tweed coat. I'm not sure.'

‘And the last time you spoke to her?'

‘The last time I spoke to her was at the party in the piazza the night before.'

‘What happened?'

‘We were all there. We had a table.' My head is beginning to throb. ‘They asked me about all this yesterday. Over and over. I've already told you.'

Francesca Giusti leans forward. ‘Then tell me,' she says.

I guess this is how they play good cop, bad cop here. I swallow, hating myself for having to dig in my bag for a Kleenex.

‘We had dinner, all of us together. We talked about the murders. And the Japanese girls told us about the Mantegna painting and the red bags. I've already told you everything I can remember. The last time I saw her that night,' my voice sounds thin, and ripply, ‘she was dancing with someone. I don't know who. I didn't recognize him. He was wearing a mask. A lot of people were. His was half gold and half silver. Like something from
Carnevale
.' I take a deep breath, trying to fend off the hollowness that's blossoming in my chest.

‘And what time was this?' Francesca Giusti asks.

‘About eleven. Maybe eleven-thirty.'

The picture of Billy's body hangs in front of me like a canvas. Did he kill her up there at the Belvedere? Under the half-burnt pile of sticks and leaves is there blood on the ground? Is that why he set the fire? How much would a fire like that even destroy? And speaking of destroy, why didn't I do that? Why didn't I take the articles and photos and burn them? All of this, just like Ty's death, all of this is my fault. The past is repeating itself, bleeding through into the present.

‘The man Signora Kalczeska was dancing with,' Pallioti asks, ‘would you know him again?'

I shake my head. ‘He was medium height, wearing dark pants, or maybe black jeans, I think. I can't remember. And maybe sneakers. Have you talked to Kirk?' I ask. ‘Her boyfriend here?' A picture of him rises in my mind, standing beside the table, his empty hand raised, staring after Billy. ‘They fought that night,' I say slowly. There's something wrong with the picture in my head, but I can't put my finger on what it is. Everything is getting all mixed up again. ‘I don't know what happened afterwards,' I say finally. ‘We left. But he was watching her. I'm sure he would remember the person she was dancing with.'

‘We have spoken to Signor Taylor.' Pallioti waves his hand in the air, either fanning smoke or dismissing Kirk, I'm not sure which. ‘Now,' he asks, ‘back to Signora Kalczeska. She came home that night?'

‘I don't know.' I feel a prickle of exasperation. ‘How would I know? I told you. I wasn't there. You should ask the old lady downstairs, she might have heard something.'

‘I assure you, we have.' Pallioti looks at me with what I am sure is supposed to be a withering gaze, but all it does is irritate me, make me feel like a cornered animal that's being poked with a stick.

‘You know,' I say suddenly, ‘it was Billy who was interested in these killings. She brought them up at dinner that night, not me. She did find out about what happened to me, yes. But I didn't tell her. Not at first. Not until she found out, anyways. I don't tell people,' I add. ‘I didn't come back here because of it, and I don't talk about it. And I didn't show her what was in that envelope. I'm sorry if she found it. If that's true, I'm sorry I didn't burn it myself. But I didn't show it to her. I wouldn't have done that. I couldn't have done that to them.'

‘Them?'

I didn't realize what I'd said.

‘The other women,' I mutter. ‘I couldn't show her their pictures. It would have been wrong.'

Pallioti and Francesca Giusti exchange a glance, then she asks, ‘Signora Warren—I'm sorry, Signora Thorcroft—why did you come back to Florence?'

‘Because my boyfriend—no, my fiancé,' I hold up my ring, ‘my
fidanzato
is here.'

‘Signor Sanguetti?'

I nod.

‘None of this is his fault,' I say. The wobbly tone goes out of my voice. Defending Pierangelo is something I can do. ‘None of it,' I repeat. ‘He didn't even know about the stuff I kept. I wanted to know about what happened to Eleanora Darnelli and Benedetta Lucchese because no one ever told me. I guess I thought I'd find out at the trial. But when Karel Indrizzio was killed there wasn't a trial. And I didn't feel then that I could ask.'

‘So you decided to find out for yourself?'

‘Yes.'

I'm grateful that she doesn't actually make me say I took the material from Pierangelo. Or lie about whether or not I told him afterwards. She glances at Pallioti again, but he appears suddenly fascinated with his pen.

‘How much did Signora Kalczeska actually know?' Francesca Giusti asks. ‘About the other women?'

‘Everything. Everything I knew. I told her.'

‘Why?'

‘Why?'

She nods. ‘You said you didn't like to talk about it.'

‘I don't. But Billy found out, I told you. And after that, well. We talked about a lot of things.'

‘But you never showed her the pictures?'

‘No.'

‘And the'—she hesitates, choosing her words carefully—‘the little gifts, left on their bodies. You told her about those?'

I nod. ‘Yes.'

‘Interesting,' Dottoressa Giusti says. ‘You realize of course, or perhaps you don't, that that information was never released to the press.' She smiles almost ruefully. ‘We do that sometimes. To conserve the integrity of the investigation. You'll find, I think, that there is nothing about them in the newspaper articles.'

She smiles at me again, not having to make the point that she's trapped me. The only way I could know about them is if someone told me. Someone with an inside source, like Pierangelo.

‘But,' she changes tack suddenly, ‘Signora Kalczeska knew what happened to you? You told her all about it? You talked about everything.'

‘Yes.' It wasn't actually what I said, but I'm so relieved she's moved away from Pierangelo that I don't correct her. ‘So, you were friends?' she asks.

I'm not sure where she's going with this, or why, but the word ‘friend' sounds alien to me, almost laughable, as if such a pedestrian term could not possibly encompass Billy.

‘I guess,' I say, eventually. ‘She was, well, yes. For lack of a better word, she was my friend.'

‘What would be a better word? Than “friend”?'

‘What?'

I feel Pallioti shift in his chair.

‘A better word than “friend.” Lover?'

I stare at her.

‘Were you lovers?'

‘No. That's ridiculous!'

‘Is it?'

Francesca Giusti focuses on my face, and suddenly I feel Billy's fingers, as she plucked open the buttons of my blouse, stood in my bedroom and traced the road map of my scars, her hair still glistening with damp from the rain at Fiesole.

Something dangerous is happening here. Somehow this woman, whom I have never met before, has put her finger on the one thing, touched the exact moment, when Billy reached out and stepped over all the boundaries I'd built around myself.

I look straight at her. ‘We were not lovers.'

Dottoressa Giusti considers me, as if it were not so much the truth she was after, as how I would respond. What exactly I would say. A moment later she says, ‘You're a private person, aren't you, signora?'

‘Aren't we all?'

‘Of course,' she smiles. ‘But you have secrets. Hidden pictures. Things that, perhaps, you'd rather forget in order to build your new life here. You say Signora Kalczeska found out herself about what happened to you. Confronted you with it. It's not something you like to talk about, understandably. Not, perhaps, something you want revealed.' She pauses. ‘That intrusiveness, signora, someone you barely knew probing into your life like that, it must have been difficult. We understand,' she adds, ‘that Signora Kalczeska could be pushy, had a temper. That she could be…volatile. That can't have been easy.'