shaking, making the ice rattle in her glass. I looked at her closely as she passed it to me: her skin looked pasty and her lipstick only made her seem somehow sadder, as if any brightness were put on.
‘What do you know about this man she’s with?’ the father asked gruffly.
My hesitation gave the game away.
‘What?’ Biondi insisted.
‘He’s a photographer. Middle-aged.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘I don’t think so. But certainly not the best company to keep.’
‘Why not?’
I took a sip of the drink and wondered what to say. I looked up at Biondi and he was staring at me intently. ‘He’s done time for extortion,’ I said quietly. ‘He likes taking photos that embarrass people.’
‘And he’s taking snaps of Simona? Is that it?’
‘I think she is the snap.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ I looked at both of them in case they could enlighten me, but they just stared back. ‘I’ve got an idea that she is the evidence, or that she knows something about someone’s wrong-doing. That’s the only explanation I can come up with: that he’s using her for another shake down.’
Biondi growled and looked at the floor. His wife’s face looked thin and drawn as she stared at her empty tumbler.
‘Did Simona need money?’ I asked.
‘Not at all. Why?’
‘I’m only trying to understand why she would willingly go along with a man like Mori.’
They said nothing. We stood there like that in silence for a while. There was something heavy and tense about the silence, as though the couple’s arguments were still echoing off the walls. I began to think that Mori might have been Simona’s only ticket out of here and that she had taken a ride with him just to escape. Plenty of young girls go along with inappropriate older men just to break a bond with their parents. And there are plenty of older men around to help them make that break. I began to wonder whether it was just an unorthodox romance, a young girl’s fling. Sometimes that’s the only way an apparently perfect teenager can escape being perfect.
I walked towards the drinks trolley and put my glass back.
‘Where are you going?’ Biondi barked.
‘To talk to Chiara.’
‘Why? How can she help you? What’s she got to do with this?’ There was something in the way he said it that sounded wrong, like he knew how she could help me and wanted to know if I knew. It riled me. I was supposed to bring them anything I had, and yet it seemed as if they wouldn’t give me anything back; as if they were holding out on me, not telling me the whole story.
‘Information needs to travel both ways,’ I said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I need you to be more open with me, tell me more about Simona and her life.’
He put his palms out as if he would lay out everything on a plate. ‘Anything you need to know, just ask. Anything.’
We stared at each other briefly and I sensed, instinctively, that he would have rather dropped the invisible plate than give it to me.
‘I need to talk to Chiara,’ I said.
‘What on earth for?’
‘She might be able to help.’
‘I don’t see how,’ he said with the impatience of a man who was losing his grip on a lie.
‘Is she here?’
‘She’s at home.’
‘Where’s that?’
He sighed as though it were a waste of time. ‘It’s just round the corner. It’s number 67 on the street behind this one, the one that runs parallel to the main road out there.’ He flicked his thumb at the heavy traffic outside.
I nodded, studying his face. I was still trying to work out why a man who was apparently desperate to find his missing daughter would hold back information from the detective he had hired to find her. It didn’t make sense. I guessed the search had led somewhere he didn’t want it to go.
He must have picked up on my suspicion, because he became uncharacteristically friendly, putting a hand on my arm as we walked to the front door like we were old mates.
‘What do you know about this man she’s with?’ the father asked gruffly.
My hesitation gave the game away.
‘What?’ Biondi insisted.
‘He’s a photographer. Middle-aged.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘I don’t think so. But certainly not the best company to keep.’
‘Why not?’
I took a sip of the drink and wondered what to say. I looked up at Biondi and he was staring at me intently. ‘He’s done time for extortion,’ I said quietly. ‘He likes taking photos that embarrass people.’
‘And he’s taking snaps of Simona? Is that it?’
‘I think she is the snap.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ I looked at both of them in case they could enlighten me, but they just stared back. ‘I’ve got an idea that she is the evidence, or that she knows something about someone’s wrong-doing. That’s the only explanation I can come up with: that he’s using her for another shake down.’
Biondi growled and looked at the floor. His wife’s face looked thin and drawn as she stared at her empty tumbler.
‘Did Simona need money?’ I asked.
‘Not at all. Why?’
‘I’m only trying to understand why she would willingly go along with a man like Mori.’
They said nothing. We stood there like that in silence for a while. There was something heavy and tense about the silence, as though the couple’s arguments were still echoing off the walls. I began to think that Mori might have been Simona’s only ticket out of here and that she had taken a ride with him just to escape. Plenty of young girls go along with inappropriate older men just to break a bond with their parents. And there are plenty of older men around to help them make that break. I began to wonder whether it was just an unorthodox romance, a young girl’s fling. Sometimes that’s the only way an apparently perfect teenager can escape being perfect.
I walked towards the drinks trolley and put my glass back.
‘Where are you going?’ Biondi barked.
‘To talk to Chiara.’
‘Why? How can she help you? What’s she got to do with this?’ There was something in the way he said it that sounded wrong, like he knew how she could help me and wanted to know if I knew. It riled me. I was supposed to bring them anything I had, and yet it seemed as if they wouldn’t give me anything back; as if they were holding out on me, not telling me the whole story.
‘Information needs to travel both ways,’ I said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I need you to be more open with me, tell me more about Simona and her life.’
He put his palms out as if he would lay out everything on a plate. ‘Anything you need to know, just ask. Anything.’
We stared at each other briefly and I sensed, instinctively, that he would have rather dropped the invisible plate than give it to me.
‘I need to talk to Chiara,’ I said.
‘What on earth for?’
‘She might be able to help.’
‘I don’t see how,’ he said with the impatience of a man who was losing his grip on a lie.
‘Is she here?’
‘She’s at home.’
‘Where’s that?’
He sighed as though it were a waste of time. ‘It’s just round the corner. It’s number 67 on the street behind this one, the one that runs parallel to the main road out there.’ He flicked his thumb at the heavy traffic outside.
I nodded, studying his face. I was still trying to work out why a man who was apparently desperate to find his missing daughter would hold back information from the detective he had hired to find her. It didn’t make sense. I guessed the search had led somewhere he didn’t want it to go.
He must have picked up on my suspicion, because he became uncharacteristically friendly, putting a hand on my arm as we walked to the front door like we were old mates.
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