The Fallen Angel (37 page)

‘We need Leo,’ Teresa began.

‘He’s not here,’ Costa said. ‘I’m in charge in his absence. I’ll deal with this.’

Teresa’s eyebrows rose. Her plain, friendly face wore a wry, amused smile.

‘Well, sir,’ she said. ‘What do you want us to do?’

‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘Is that all you wanted to say to Falcone?’

The forensic team exchanged another set of maddening, silent glances.

‘Not exactly,’ Di Capua replied.

‘Semen,’ Teresa’s assistant said. ‘That’s the problem. We expected—’

‘Don’t tell me what you expected,’ Costa ordered. ‘Tell me what you found.’

The forensic officers glanced at one another.

‘Perhaps we won’t miss Leo after all,’ Teresa mused. ‘The honest truth is we’ve found nothing. Because of the holidays and the stinking budget cuts we’ve got
to use an outside lab for DNA sampling. Takes time. Saves money. The latter seems more important than the former, at least to the bean-counters upstairs.’

‘On with it, on with it,’ Peroni urged, waving a hand at her.

She took a deep breath then said, ‘We don’t have a positive ID for any of the semen yet. The reports that came back from the outside lab aren’t usable. I’ve rejected them
and said they need to be carried out again. They won’t get round to that until tomorrow.’

‘Wonderful,’ Costa muttered under his breath.

‘The best case you can come up with will still fall in court if the defence can question the DNA,’ Teresa said. ‘It’s happening more and more. I can’t take
chances.’

‘We’ve been waiting days!’

‘I know.’ She paused to add a little drama, the way she always liked on such occasions. ‘The problem is the data we’ve got back doesn’t match. It’s close. But
it’s not identical, as it should be. I think this is because it’s been handled badly. But there is an alternative explanation.’

She took another deep breath then said, ‘It’s just possible that we have semen specimens from two men, not one.’

The two cops didn’t say anything.

‘We didn’t look at the results until this morning,’ Di Capua said. ‘It’s probably a mistake.’

Costa looked at Teresa Lupo and said, ‘Probably?’

She frowned.

‘Look, I hate this as much as you do. I want certainties. We don’t have them. The most likely answer is that the lab screwed up. If they didn’t . . .’ She shrugged.
‘Then we have two men involved in sexual encounters. One of them, I assume, is Malise Gabriel. But I can’t tell you which yet. Or who the other might be.’

‘The son?’ Peroni asked.

‘That was my first thought,’ Teresa replied ‘It seems logical. As logical as anything else in this case. I’ve sent off a sample to check. Tomorrow . . .’

‘I don’t want to wait till tomorrow,’ Costa insisted.

‘Well, you’ll have to,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Go shout at the bean-counters. There is a problem with the son, though. These two samples are different but similar,
which is why we assume there’s been some mistake and really it’s two samples from the same man, contaminated somehow.’

Peroni growled and said, ‘Make this simple.’

‘If these do turn out to be from two different men, then I’d hazard a guess that they’re probably related.’

That pause again. She gazed at Costa.

‘Are you absolutely sure Robert Gabriel was adopted?’

‘Mina said so. The mother too.’

‘Quite. Are you
sure
?’

He thought about it and said, ‘There’s no physical resemblance. Robert was nothing like her. His habits. His personality.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll get someone to
check.’

Everything needed to be re-examined. Every last piece of evidence they’d lazily taken for granted.

‘While we’re at it,’ he said, ‘let’s look at those photographs again, shall we?’

‘A deal?’ Toni Grimaldi asked. ‘What kind of deal?’

They sat at a quiet table outside the Caffè della Pace, not far from the small temple-like church of Santa Maria. When the place was quiet Falcone liked to use it for such meetings. It
was close to his old home near the Piazza Navona, a pleasant, ancient establishment with an atmosphere conducive to the kind of frank conversation that was, on occasion, impossible inside the
formal corridors of the Questura.

He’d called the lawyer that morning, catching him on the train in from Ostia as Falcone had hoped. Timing was important in such matters. It was vital to plant the seed of this idea early,
outside the office.

‘A deal that suits us all,’ Falcone said, picking at his breakfast pastry. ‘This case is damaging everyone. The Questura. The family. The judiciary, if we allow it to get that
far . . .’

‘You sound very different from yesterday,’ Grimaldi noted. ‘Then you wanted me to give you carte blanche to throw these two women into a cell and leave them there until they
signed a confession to murder.’

‘Yesterday was yesterday.’

‘And today you have firm proof the girl was involved in the death of her own father! Now you wish to pardon her! Please.’

That was not what Falcone was suggesting. He repeated the idea. Grimaldi listened, nodding. He was a good, decent man, one who would stop at nothing to put a criminal in the dock. But a solid
Catholic, with a large family and a happy home life too. An honest, hard-working citizen with an open mind. The kind of individual the Questura depended upon.

‘I want this to go away,’ Falcone continued. ‘We all do. Unless that happens, we’ll have those people demonstrating outside the Questura every day of the week. Headlines
in the newspapers. Officers engaged in fruitless inquiries.’

‘Fruitless? You still have two unsolved murders. That’s if we apportion the brother and our friend Riggi to this drugs gang. You’re not suggesting we forget them, are
you?’

‘Not for a moment. The deaths of Malise Gabriel and Joanne Van Doren are not unsolved. Robert was responsible for both. That’s what I’ll put in my report. But this new
evidence. The email linking the daughter to her father’s death. Much as I’d like to, I can’t bury it. She, perhaps the mother too . . . there needs to be a statement. An admission
of some prior knowledge. She can say she never knew why he wanted the information. I don’t want an admission of guilt, but I do require an explanation. In return . . .’

Grimaldi finished his coffee. His walrus moustache bristled.

‘In return what?’

‘An agreement that the case will go no further. You tell me. You’re the lawyer.’

The man opposite thought about this for a while.

‘If there was a prosecution she’d never go to jail, you know. The daughter. Even if you could gain an accessory conviction on the basis of a simple email. And the mother?
You’ve nothing, have you?’

‘Nothing. I know all this, Toni. Why do you think we’re having this conversation?’

It was a beautiful morning. The air had the first breath of autumn in it, a subtle chill beneath the heat that had pervaded Rome night and day for weeks. This harsh summer would come to an
end.

‘There are four people dead, Leo. Even if one of them was a crooked cop. Another a murderer. The third some kind of monster.’

Falcone wished Grimaldi hadn’t said that. Mina Gabriel did love her father in some way, he believed. This was one reason, an unspoken one, why he didn’t wish to pursue the case. He
feared what else it might uncover, to no one’s benefit.

‘All the more reason I’ll be happy if we can close this for good today,’ Falcone said. ‘That would be best for all of us. No one need suffer more.’

Grimaldi nodded.

‘So be it.’

‘What? A pardon? A caution? What?’

The lawyer laughed.

‘A pardon? I’m a Questura lawyer. Not a judge. I can’t hand those out. Besides, I want this girl, the mother too, to understand we know they’ve been less than frank with
us. That we’re choosing not to take this any further. I want to hear Mina Gabriel acknowledge that email you found and tell me, in her own words, she didn’t know why Robert wanted it.
I’m no priest, Leo. I don’t offer forgiveness to the guilty. For our sake and for theirs I want to hear some word, some expression of responsibility on their part. If I get that,
they’ll hear no more from me. I’ll concur with you that there’s insufficient evidence for anyone else to be charged. Which is probably true, by the way.’

Falcone recalled the difficult meetings he’d had with Cecilia Gabriel and her daughter.

‘I’m not sure how easy that’s going to be.’

‘The girl hasn’t even admitted there was abuse, has she? Even with those photographs you have.’

‘True, but—’

‘No,’ Grimaldi cut in. ‘I won’t move on this. If she won’t give me even this small thing, you must continue the investigation. Find more evidence than a single
incriminating email. I can’t bury four murders without a reason. It’s not as if I’m asking for some sign of complicity. Only a brief and understandable explanation. In return they
may be getting away with murder. Or at the very least being party to one. You asked for a deal. How good a deal is that? The best they’re likely to have.’

Falcone scratched his tidy silver beard, thinking.

‘The trouble is,’ he asked, ‘how on earth do I sell that to them? I haven’t managed to have a civilized conversation with Cecilia Gabriel since we met. She’s
slapped me in the face twice. I don’t know . . .’

‘You need a lawyer with you,’ Grimaldi told him. ‘We possess what those bright young things in human resources call a different skill set. Come.’ He looked at his watch.
‘I can make the time. Let’s walk round there now. This House of Owls sounds an interesting place. We can have a full and frank conversation, just the four of us. No notes. Nothing
formal. A little chat, one that in legal terms doesn’t even exist. I will make the situation plain. All I require is a little candour on their part. In return I shall see that the file goes
no further on the grounds that a prosecution would not be in the public interest.’

He opened his hands in a very Roman signal of generosity.

‘What more can I offer, Leo? Please. Tell me.’

Falcone thought about this. It was what he’d hoped for, though he still felt uncomfortable leaving his team rudderless that morning.

‘I should call Costa and explain.’

‘That,’ Grimaldi said, ‘is the last thing you’re going to do. Trust me. With arrangements of this nature you do not involve the Questura. Not till the deed is
done.’

The lawyer tapped the side of his bulbous nose.

‘Agreed?’ he added, though it was not, in truth, a question.

The prints were spread out over the desk in two separate heaps. No one had looked too carefully at these, Costa realized. There hadn’t been time and they all quietly
shared Falcone’s distaste for the prurience of this case from the outset. No one wanted to peer too closely at such material unless there was a very good reason. That seemed absent. Everyone
involved, police and forensic, thought they knew what was there.

‘These pictures are different,’ Costa said.

‘Technically, they’re bound to be,’ Di Capua piped up. ‘The ones in the basement are taken using film. That nice old Hasselblad we found. That’s why they look so
much better. That and my processing skills. The ones on the USB stick are from some digital camera we still haven’t located. From the EXIF on the jpeg I can tell you . . .’

Peroni uttered a long, loud sigh.

‘We know from the data,’ Di Capua went on, ‘it was taken with an inexpensive Fuji pocket camera. It couldn’t possibly look as good. If—’

‘I’m not talking about quality,’ Costa interrupted.

He steeled himself to stare again at both sets of photographs: the ones of Joanne Van Doren, the shots which were, without any doubt, of Mina. It was nothing to do with sharpness or depth of
field or anything else photographic. They were entirely different in nature, in the way they’d happened, the story they were trying to tell.

‘These,’ Costa said, indicating the Hasselblad prints, ‘are posed. As if Gabriel was trying to take shots to order. For a pornographic magazine or something. I don’t
know. Also . . .’

He understood very little about photography. But he remembered the way his own father had struggled to take family portraits using the awkward clockwork timer on their ancient Kodak. It rarely
worked. There were always shots that caught the cameraman walking back to the group, back to the lens, arriving too late. It was messy and unpredictable.

‘The ones in the basement. I’m not even sure it’s just him, is it?’

They crowded round and stared hard themselves.

‘Oh God,’ Teresa groaned. ‘Why didn’t we see that?’

‘We weren’t looking,’ Di Capua grumbled.

They had all assumed that it was Malise Gabriel in this set of shots because he appeared, full face, in a single frame early in the sequence. That one picture showed him on the bed with the
American woman, poised over her, as if they were about to begin making love. But they weren’t even touching, and the expression between them was one of false lust, theatrical expectation. All
the other prints were principally of the woman, and they were different. Real. Visceral. Full of a bleak animal heat, the way pornography often was.

‘How,’ Costa asked, ‘could Malise Gabriel have taken those shots on his own? With a timer? She’s having sex with someone. You can see that. How could you set up an
old-fashioned camera, any camera, to take something as carefully shot as this? So that you can easily identify the woman but not the man?’

‘They could have cropped it,’ Maria said. ‘Deleted things.’

‘It’s not digital,’ Di Capua snapped. ‘What’s there is what was on the film.’

‘A second man,’ Teresa suggested. ‘Either it’s Malise having sex or he’s behind the camera. We can look at what we can see of him and compare it with what
we’ve got in the morgue. I can tell you definitely once there’s a DNA report I can trust. Sorry, Nic. It just looked like one more white male having his fun. We didn’t have any
reason to think otherwise.’

Costa bristled.

‘We had every reason not to make assumptions. Let’s try to remember next time, shall we? And these . . .’