The Fallen Angel (34 page)

‘I think one way or another you’re going to jail,’ Costa said and they left the room.

The immigration officer was outside on a stool, with a bottle of San Pellegrino and a sandwich.

‘Some interesting noises in there,’ he said.

‘We had a frank exchange of views,’ Peroni told him.

‘When do you want to send a van?’ he asked.

‘We don’t,’ Costa said. ‘His auntie says he’s innocent. Bust him for the passport. We’ve got nothing else.’

The immigration man’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of surprise.

‘All that shouting and screaming? And you got nothing?’

‘You heard,’ Costa murmured, wondering what was happening back in the Questura, wishing he could have been there instead.

Not long after the Gabriels and Bernard Santacroce left the morgue Falcone took a call from Costa. Teresa waited, watching, and could see the disappointment in his face.

‘Well,’ he said when it was finished. ‘One more blind alley to add to the rest.’

‘Meaning?’

She listened as he explained what Costa and Peroni had discovered from the Turk at Ciampino.

‘We’ll check the alibi,’ Falcone said. ‘I’ll get narcotics to search his home. There won’t be anything there, of course. And the alibi will stack up. If it
was him on the bike . . .’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t have said a word.’

‘Drugs. Complicated business. Is it really surprising there’s some grubby little war going on around the Campo? Or that our stupid little English friend on the table here put his own
neck on the line by bringing all this attention to himself?’

Falcone muttered something foul and didn’t answer.

Teresa Lupo came and stood next to him. In his own way the man had tried to be sensitive towards the Gabriel family, as best he could. But the job, the need to ask awkward questions, and his own
difficult personality all intervened in the end. It wasn’t his fault. This was who he was.

‘You know,’ Teresa Lupo said, ‘it is just possible that everything here really is as simple as it seems. Robert realized what a creep his father was and killed him. Then the
American too when she found out. Toni Grimaldi’s right. Proving Malise Gabriel was having sex with his own daughter won’t bring anyone to justice. It could just cause a lot more pain to
people who’ve had more than their fair share. Gabriel was a very sick man, Leo. Whether he told his family or not, they will have felt the burden. Should we really add to it?’

‘I know all this!’ he replied, seemingly hurt by her accusation.

‘I appreciate that.’

‘I’m not here to spare their feelings. I’m here to find out the truth. If they’d sit down, look me in the eye, and tell me something I could believe . . .’

‘They don’t want to talk about it, Leo,’ she said. ‘Would you?’

He scowled. ‘What have they got to lose? You know the way public opinion is at the moment. Even if I could prove they knew Robert intended to kill his father I doubt I’d get them in
court.’

‘Their dignity?’ she suggested.

He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes.

‘I’ve taken that from them already, haven’t I?’ he murmured.

She waited. He’d recovered himself again, was once more the maddening individual she’d grown to admire, to love in a way, over the years.

‘I don’t believe they’re murderers,’ he insisted. ‘Not directly. The brother, yes. Not them. I don’t see that they could have been involved in the American
woman’s death. But Malise Gabriel’s? If they’re innocent why don’t they
look
innocent? Why do they act this way?’

‘Perhaps they feel you’re intruding into a part of their lives where you don’t belong. Besides, if you could prove they weren’t entirely innocent, that they somehow knew,
would that be justice? Who’d benefit?’

He bristled and said, ‘That’s not my job. I don’t make those decisions.’

‘But you do. We all do. That’s why we’re here. Beatrice Cenci had the Pope’s inquisitors. Mina Gabriel has us. We’re kinder, I think. But are we really any
different?’

‘You can’t pick and choose,’ Falcone insisted. ‘We’re all equal under the law.’

‘Unless you’re rich or a politician or the friend of someone who knows someone.’

‘They’re all the same as far as I’m concerned. This is the first time you’ve seen Mina and her mother. You tell me. Am I mistaken? Do you really feel I’m chasing
some ghost here?’

No, she thought. His misgivings were entirely understandable, the reaction of an intelligent, experienced detective. Mina Gabriel was genuinely distraught at her brother’s death. But the
mother with her cold indifference to everything, even the incriminating photographs . . .

‘Grief isn’t a predictable emotion,’ she said. ‘It shows itself in very different ways, and at different times, because that’s how people are. They’re not
machines or Pavlov’s dog.’

He pointed at the door through which the Gabriels had left and asked, ‘Have you seen that way before?’

She felt so sorry for Leo Falcone at times. He had an insight into dark places, a sympathy with the pain of those he suspected of terrible deeds. This awkward, intuitive wisdom was beyond the
ordinary men and women within the Questura. They were lucky not to have it.

‘No,’ Teresa Lupo agreed. ‘Not that way. Do you really want to pursue this further, Leo? Toni Grimaldi doesn’t. But you’re the boss.’

‘What about you?’ he asked hopefully.

She shrugged.

‘I don’t know. If you asked the man in the street . . .’

‘Then half the time they’d want to bring back hanging, and the rest they’d let the guilty walk away free,’ he interrupted.

‘Quite,’ she agreed. ‘It’s so much easier to define crime than it is to put your finger on justice, isn’t it?’ She observed him, thinking. ‘You’re
letting this get to you and I don’t like watching that. You need to step back a little. See it from the kind of perspective we had in the beginning. When it was a dead man in the street, an
intellectual man, a genius some might say. A man who loved science and reason and Galileo. And loved women and arguments and . . . life, I guess too.’

Teresa Lupo tried to crystallize her thinking. It was so woolly, so vague it was impossible. But doubts led to certainties sometimes, if only they could be viewed in the right light.

She took Falcone by the arm and said, ‘You know the most illuminating conversation we’ve had about this curious little affair was last Sunday, in the ghetto, in Gianni’s little
restaurant.’

‘True,’ Falcone replied. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder inquiry. I don’t have time for social events.’

She looked at her watch.

‘We still have to eat. Listen to me. It’s nearly four thirty. I doubt anything’s going to happen our end today. I’d put money on it not happening yours. Why
not?’

A thought had clouded his face. He glanced anxiously at his watch.

‘Oh lord,’ Falcone said. ‘I forgot what date it was.’

He scratched his head.

‘Dinner,’ he said. ‘That’s a good idea. Very good idea, actually. Eight o’clock. I’ll book a place I know.’

He was pointing at Silvio Di Capua and the work experience kid, who were head down in the corner going through some papers.

‘Bring them along too.’

‘Are you serious?’ she asked.

‘Why not? I’m paying. Finding that mattress deserves something.’

Teresa put it to the pair of them. They looked surprised. Horrified, more like.

‘We’re busy,’ Di Capua said. ‘The Ducati from Tuesday night’s supposed to turn up any minute downstairs.’

Maria waved her gloved hands in their faces.

‘We’re going to rip it apart,’ she said gleefully.

‘But thanks for asking,’ Di Capua said, and went back to work.

‘Eight o’clock,’ Teresa agreed. ‘And now?’

Falcone scooped up his papers. He looked a little calmer, almost happier for some reason.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Some fresh air. I need to get out of this place for a while. Call Costa and Peroni. I’ll meet you all there. And persuade Nic to
go home and get a change of clothes for once. He’s only ten minutes from that place of his. It ought to be easy enough.’

‘Leo? Gone for a walk?’ Peroni asked, amazed.

They sat on the porch of Costa’s villa near the Via Appia Antica, sipping Pellegrino, watching the birds pick at the black grapes on the vines. Netting, Costa thought. That might be what
he needed if he ever got round to trying to put the vineyard back in order.

‘He never goes for a walk,’ the big cop went on. ‘And this dinner? What’s he playing at?’

‘We don’t know what Leo does when he’s off duty, do we?’ Costa said.

There’d been a time, once. When he was briefly in love with the woman from Venice. But then that fell apart, as his affairs usually did after a while. And Leo Falcone was back to being the
man they knew: a dedicated and talented police officer whose life revolved around the Questura, and barely seemed to exist outside it.

‘Suppose not,’ Peroni replied.

He turned and looked at Costa.

‘Is he happy, Nic? I mean, just a little bit. I’d never expect Leo to be really happy. Not like a normal human being. But a little bit. It would worry me if he didn’t have even
that.’

Some more birds – finches, he thought – had begun to descend on the crop of grapes. They looked better than usual this year. He ought to be making wine, inviting people round to pick
the crop, take part in the entertaining ceremony of crushing them, turning the juice into bad wine, just as his father had done with his friends a generation ago when Costa was a child. But those
times, that way of life, seemed gone now. Everyone was so busy. The hectic round of work and duty never seemed to offer the space, the opportunity for leisure, time with the people you loved. Then
the seasons turned once more, summer to autumn, autumn to winter. Another year gone, lost forever, haunted by the ghosts of words unspoken, promises never kept.

‘He’ll be happy when this is over,’ Costa said. ‘Something about this case . . .’ He knew what it was, and so did Peroni. There was no need to say it out loud.
Falcone was haunted by the thought of Mina Gabriel’s damaged innocence, and the idea that she might be punished for defending herself against the brutish attentions of her own father.
‘It gets to him, doesn’t it?’

‘Gets to all of us,’ Peroni said. ‘Can I take the car? I need to change too. You can make your own way there?’

‘Of course.’

The big man stood up and stretched a little painfully. Both he and Falcone faced retirement in a few years. Neither, Costa thought, would find it easy to leave the Questura behind. It
wasn’t just the job. It was the people, the companionship, the notion of some shared sense of direction. The idea that, in some small way, their mutual efforts represented a glimmer of hope,
a trace of humanity, in a world going bad.

‘We need to get Leo out more,’ Costa said without thinking. ‘We need to go back to the way we were. When Emily was alive. When we felt like . . .’ There was no other
word, and he was a Roman so it was not difficult or embarrassing for him to use it. ‘. . . like a family.’

Peroni nodded.

‘We do,’ he agreed. ‘Starting tonight.’

Costa watched him go, thinking all the time about Agata, what to say, how he might help her through this difficult transition. He became lost in his thoughts after a while. So much so that, when
the time came to go, he simply walked upstairs, threw on the first set of clean clothes he found, then came back down, fell on the Vespa and kicked it into life on the first try.

They assembled at the restaurant just before eight, Agata coming directly from work. Falcone had picked Al Pompiere back in the ghetto, just a few steps away from Sora
Margherita, the humble little hole-in-the-wall they’d visited a few nights before. He arrived in a fresh grey suit, a carnation in his lapel, a smile on his face, looking so calm, so at one
with himself, Costa wondered why, a few hours earlier, he’d been worried about the man.

They went up the staircase to the first floor of the restaurant, one of the best in the ghetto. A reserved sign stood on a secluded window table with a view back to the Piazza delle Cinque Scole
and, on the small mound opposite, one face of the gloomy, sprawling Palazzo Cenci. Costa found the sight distracting: this tragedy was somehow rooted in the buildings around here. In the history of
the Cenci family, in the rundown apartment block that Joanne Van Doren had been trying, unsuccessfully, to resurrect and turn into a gold mine, creating instead a bleak fortress of secrets, some of
them still hidden.

The waiters danced around the inspector obediently. He was known here, though he’d never so much as mentioned the place. Falcone was a private individual, even as he went about his
business in the throng of the city. There was a duality to the man, in the way he could be personable, and show great care and courtesy to those around him, then retreat into his own thoughts in an
instant.

Sparkling Franciacorta arrived, followed by plates of zucchini flowers stuffed with mozzarella, battered salt cod, crunchy fried artichokes and bitter puntarelle shoots with anchovies. Finally
the head waiter entered carrying a small gift box wrapped in beautiful velvet and placed it in front of Agata.

Falcone clapped, alone. The rest of them stared at him, wondering, until Teresa asked, ‘Are we celebrating something?’

‘A birthday!’ he cried. ‘I’m too much of a gentleman to reveal the age, naturally.’

Agata bent over her present, creased with laughter, hiding her mouth with her hand.

‘I thought you’d forgotten,’ she said.

‘As if!’ he retorted. ‘You should tell a few more people, though. You’re out here with the rest of us now. Not hidden in some cloister.’

‘I was an orphan! After that a sister.’ She watched as Falcone, then the rest of them, raised their glasses in a toast. ‘Birthdays were never so important. One year older. What
does it matter?’

‘It matters,’ Teresa interjected, ‘because you get free food and drink, and presents. Or rather one present. Of course . . .’ She glared at Falcone. This was why the
cunning old fox had gone for a walk. ‘Had we known . . .’