The Killing Room (9 page)

He’d seen the housekeeper’s trolley outside the furthest door, stacked with bottles and cloths, had leaned against the wall, and breathed. That was when he’d felt something crackle in his pocket. As he pulled out Vito’s floorplan, he had heard a noise, though he couldn’t have said whether it came from above or below him. It had sounded like a woman crying.

He laid out the piece of paper now on the low table on the terrace. There was a floorplan on one side, on the other a crude sketch of the palace’s façade, with initials over the windows. BVV, IC on the first floor, the
piano nobile
; AM, DL on the floor above, Athene Morris next door to the artist. Vito had underlined one set of initials three times: MS/DS. The Professor and his wife: Magda and David Scardino. On the top floor, their suites a little smaller, and their neighbours the Flemings. MF/JF. Very cosy.

He hadn’t looked at it earlier because as he’d stood there in the corridor, far off the sound of crying had wavered, risen and subsided, then started up again. He lifted his head to listen, but maddeningly he still couldn’t locate it. Not furious, angry tears but a whimpering, apologetic, monotonous sound, the kind that drove men to battery.

‘Hello?’ The voice was sharp. ‘Can I help you?’ He looked up
and there was a young woman in a maid’s pale striped tabard, already halfway down the corridor towards him.

‘I’m the new house detective,’ he said. ‘Did she tell you? Sandro Cellini.’

The girl had folded her arms across her chest. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘I heard that.’

‘Vito?’ said Sandro. ‘Yes. You all know, then.’

She nodded. In the silence he listened, but the sobbing had died right down. Had it finished? The maid was listening too, her ear cocked.

‘You hear that?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘We’re paid not to hear anything,’ she said. She hesitated, head still raised, but there was nothing. ‘It’s most likely the Australian woman. Always at it.’ Something at the maid’s throat caught his eye: a tiny crucifix. ‘It’s her husband,’ she said, and pursed her lips.

‘Marjorie Cameron,’ said Sandro. The first time he’d seen her he thought she’d been crying. ‘What does her husband do to her?’ he asked gently.

‘He didn’t like the way she looked at Mr Vito, for starters,’ she said. ‘But any excuse will do, won’t it? With that sort. My mother told me, never marry a bully.’

‘He hits her?’

The girl hunched her shoulders. ‘If you ask me. Or she does it to herself.’ She made scratching gestures at her wrists, her forearms. ‘I’ve seen the marks.’

‘I thought it was teenagers did that,’ he said. ‘Self-harm.’ She shrugged, not much more than a teenager herself. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Alice,’ she said, arms still tight across her chest.

‘Did you like Mr Vito, Alice?’ said Sandro. ‘Giancarlo. Was he a popular guy?’

She stared, hostile.

‘It’s all right,’ said Sandro. ‘You can say what you think.’

‘He got Mariaclara fired,’ she said. ‘He said he’d seen her take the old lady’s bracelet.’

‘I thought she resigned,’ said Sandro.

‘That’s what they call it,’ said Alice. ‘She had no choice, once she was accused of it. He had no proof so they gave her a decent reference. Trade-off. They always blame you, when things go wrong. He tried to say I locked the steam room when Signora Cameron was in it, too – he had no idea.’

‘Who let Mrs Cameron out, by the way? Of the steam room?’

Alice looked at him curiously. ‘One of the other women,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘I don’t remember. The key was on the floor outside the steam room. I don’t think Vito even knew that, he never asked, anyway.’ She drew herself up. ‘But then he wasn’t a real detective.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ said Sandro.

‘Nothing,’ she said, obstinate. ‘But detectives are supposed to find stuff out, aren’t they? When bad things are happening. Only he wasn’t bothered at all, he’d just make something up, blame one of us. Too busy sucking up. Finding out what guests wanted and giving it to them.’ And having delivered her speech, stiffly she turned, a hand to the crucifix at her neck. He put a hand on her arm. She looked down at it in panic.

‘What bad things happened?’ he said. ‘Do you know who did take the bracelet? Who locked the steam room?’ He should go
down there, it was in the basement, he knew. But the thought was unpleasant: it was suffocating enough up here. She had just stared at him.

‘Did Mariaclara get another job?’ he asked. ‘Where is she now?’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘I’m serving drinks in ten minutes. I only came up because they said . . .’

‘Said what?’

She compressed her lips. ‘Mess to clear up. Again. You’d think with the dog gone—’ Somewhere far off a little bell tinkled. ‘I’ve got to go.’

As he followed her down the stairs, it had come to him that she was afraid.

On the terrace now something bit Sandro on the ankle, and he swiped at it. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered under his breath. Mosquitoes, he supposed, had coexisted with man for as long as man had lived here, and man still hadn’t worked out either how to eliminate them, nor yet to live with them. Sandro himself would never be reconciled to their existence, that thin whine, the itch, the way the evening air would thicken and spoil with them. There were countries without mosquitoes, imagine that, and for a moment he closed his eyes and allowed himself to wonder if it would be worth it, leaving this city of warm stone and stagnant water for one of those dim, cool, foggy places.

‘Mr Cellini,’ said a voice at his shoulder, and he started to his feet, hastily stuffing the floorplan back in his pocket. It was Athene Morris: for a big woman, and at her age, she was surprisingly quiet on her feet. Coming down the path behind
her was Therese Van Vleet, stepping daintily on the gravel in heels, and her husband; she raised her head and he saw big dark blue eyes fixing on him in silent appeal. He could almost hear Luisa’s tut.

‘I said we’d meet again, didn’t I?’ said Athene Morris. The English had little tolerance of emotion, as far as Sandro understood. ‘So, how did it go with Miss Cornell? Are you now our new . . . ah—’

‘Head of Security,’ he supplied hastily, wondering if that would do.

She leaned a little towards him and said, lowering her voice, ‘I expect you know what happened to the last one?’ Was that almost a smile? ‘Poor Therese, she’s so upset. A tender soul. She and her husband—’

She straightened, and her voice was loud again. ‘Therese,’ she said, reaching out with a ringed hand, surprisingly elegant, Sandro noticed. She took the young woman’s and drew her close. ‘My dear. And Brett. Have you met Mr Cellini? Our new Head of Security.’ She turned to Sandro. ‘Brett and Giancarlo got on like a house on fire.’ Then as if as an afterthought, ‘So sad. Such a shock.’

Brett Van Vleet cleared his throat. ‘He was a good guy,’ he said, uneasy.

‘It’s an army thing,’ said Therese. ‘They talked about military service. Brett was in the Marines for ten years.’

Sandro frowned. He’d have thought Vito would have been too young for compulsory military service, but before he could complete the necessary calculation Athene had chipped in.

‘Brett is in – what do you call it in America? – real estate, or
so he tells us. Or is it that you’ve made so much money you’ve retired? How’s that gorgeous car of yours?’

‘Athene,’ protested Therese Van Vleet, uncertain, tearful – or was she actually crying?

Sandro felt a surge of pity. ‘Mrs Van Vleet,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure.’

She took his hand gratefully and turned towards her husband, who was still looking uncomfortable. She was not yet thirty, calculated Sandro. He would be ten years older, his ruddy complexion turning from tan to brick against the sandy hair.

Sandro offered his hand again. ‘Mr Van Vleet.’ The handshake was surprisingly diffident for a big man; Sandro wasn’t sure if his own was sweating or still greasy.

‘You English,’ said Van Vleet awkwardly, letting Sandro’s hand drop. ‘Athene’s just being funny, sweetheart.’ He turned to Sandro. ‘I was in real estate, yes, over in Florida. And I had my car shipped over, sure.’

‘It’s vast,’ supplied Athene Morris, with evident pleasure. ‘It actually doesn’t fit in the garage.’

‘And if I’d known how narrow the streets are . . .’ said the American, with a flash of ill-temper. Then, casually, ‘I may just have it shipped back.’

Sandro saw Therese Van Vleet give him a quick, anxious look. He wondered how much it would cost to ship a big American car halfway across the world and back.

‘I’m so looking forward to the unveiling,’ Therese said, flushing.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Athene, turning back to Sandro. ‘I do want to see Martin’s face when Mr Lludic’s masterwork is revealed. All
that reticence, will he be able to keep it up?’ All the time her pale blue eyes were still on Sandro’s face, roaming, he felt, looking for something. It came to him that she was a mischief-maker.

‘You know Sir Martin?’ As if Sandro would; he just smiled mildly. ‘He’s our diplomat. Sir Martin and Lady Fleming – Juliet Fleming as was, though anyone less like a Juliet you couldn’t imagine, she never was pretty, not even as a young woman. Never the romantic heroine.’ The light, teasing tone was gone, replaced with something colder, harsher, and she raised her head, looking up towards the great house with its windows.

On the upper terrace another small group had gathered. Sandro could see the tall Professor, leaning down to talk to the Australian, and there was the maid Alice, moving between them with a tray, head down. Sandro felt a kind of claustrophobic dread. Jesus. He was bringing Giuli into this lot, with all the baggage she’d accumulated today. And he still hadn’t phoned Luisa.

‘Really, Athene,’ Therese Van Vleet was saying. ‘Juliet’s not well, you know.’

‘Will you excuse me a moment,’ he said, marvelling that the panic he felt had not found his way into his voice. ‘There’s someone . . . there’s something I have to do.’ And stumbling on the gravel, he tried not to run from them.

Chapter Nine

‘I
SAW YOUR BEAUTIFUL NECK,’
John had said afterwards. ‘Like a painting, like a Vermeer through the window.’ How he found her.

As Elena looked through the greasy window of the workshop, the light of late afternoon beyond it low and hazy, the memory sent her in search of detergent, to distract herself.

She’d go and see her uncle again tomorrow. It had cheered him up, the nurses had said. He’s not going home any time soon, they confided. It’ll be a long haul. The implication being, if he goes home at all he’ll be lucky.

She’d sent John a message about the heart attack. That had been the first sign, looking back. Because they’d got on well enough: her uncle always looked up with his funny old smile when he appeared at the window, and John would shake his hand, every time, with comedy vigour. But John had sounded strained and distant when he called back, which hadn’t been until the following day, a week ago now.
Poor old thing. Well, how is he? Poor old thing. I must visit him.
But all vague. Other
things on his mind. Other people. It had been the last time she’d spoken to him.

Other people: the idea made her feel sick. She didn’t want anything to do with other people. The unveiling ceremony suddenly looked like a bad idea. Danilo Lludic just after another scalp. She scrubbed harder at the window and then, sitting back on her heels to wipe a drip of dirty water from her cheek, she became aware of someone walking up the street and stopping at the door to the Palazzo San Giorgio.

Her uncle had said something when Elena had seen him that morning, sitting up on the pillows and pale as paper. ‘I thought your guy might have come to see me.’ She’d just smiled weakly. Then he’d gone on. ‘He was always looking out of the window, wasn’t he? Never could work that out.’

Funny that it had struck her uncle too. But then she remembered that John would stand looking out through the workshop window as well, while she and her uncle worked. Just watching.

‘He’s gone, hasn’t he?’ her uncle had said then, and he’d laid his head back on the pillow, too tired for any more talking.

Elena stood up with the bucket, half turning just as the woman across the road half turned too. Short spiky hair, bare arms, on the thin side. Not expensively dressed enough for that place, not by a long way. Something about her visible unease drew Elena’s attention, and then . . . the profile, and those skinny arms.

I know her, thought Elena, and as if in response the woman turned to look at her full on. And then the doorman beckoned her in and the door was closing behind her.

Giulietta Sarto. My God, thought Elena. God in heaven. The last person, the very last person she’d expect to see going in there.

Giulietta Sarto had been in her final year at middle school when Elena had arrived. She had a reputation for being wild and furious, and she was terrifyingly thin. No one went near her – except a certain kind of boy – for fear of being mauled. But for a period Elena had been bullied by a girl a couple of years older and Giulietta Sarto had taken her on, almost at random. Coming upon Elena cornered by the girl, Sarto had pulled the girl back off her by the hair, a clump of it coming out in her hand, and the bully had left Elena alone after that. Giulietta Sarto had never spoken to her, not then, nor afterwards.

And then of course, some twenty-five years later – and five years back now – she’d been in the news. Maybe if you hadn’t been at school with Giulietta Sarto, you’d have forgotten all that by now.

Still, thought Elena. Perhaps I will go. I’ll go to that unveiling.

*

At his post in the orchid-scented foyer, his hands behind his back, the doorman turned to meet Sandro as he emerged from the corridor.

‘Lino,’ said Sandro with weary sympathy, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘All right if I hang around here? I’m expecting someone.’

Lino nodded: not much older than him, but ground down. No muscle under the coat.

He had sent Luisa a text. It wasn’t enough, he knew that. Particularly as it only said,
Home late, don’t wait up.

‘You married, Lino?’