“It’s not for me to complain, Commissario, but I would appreciate more support from Pisanelli. You said we should work as a team.”
“What happened yesterday, Brigadiere?”
“Pisanelli is supposed to be working for you and not for Commissario Merenda.”
“Merenda’s a nuisance and I’d be grateful if he used his own men rather than poaching mine.”
Her hands were delicate and clean. She moved the steering wheel with short precise movements. A smile at the edge of her lips.
They reached the bridge just as the Genoa train pulled out of the station below them. “A lot of people believe that Commissario Merenda is bringing new life to the Questura. New life and new dynamism.”
“Then he doesn’t need Pisanelli.” Trotti’s voice was cold. “What happened yesterday, Ciuffi?”
Another layer of mask.
“Well, Brigadiere?”
“I checked with the registry office.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” She shrugged. “Just that the records show Signora Vardin is not the first Signora Vardin.”
“What?”
“His second wife.”
The traffic policeman in the middle of the road beckoned them on. He glanced at their number plate but there was no recognition in his eyes as he watched Trotti and Ciuffi drive past. He did not salute.
Past the enormous billboard advertising the local fur atelier.
“Is that important?”
“It could be.” The mask now hid all emotion. “Because it means that little Laura and Antonetta are not sisters.”
“Of course they’re sisters.”
“The same mother, Commissario. But not the same father. They are stepsisters. And from what I can gather, they don’t get on very well. Netta seems to think that Laura is too spoiled. They quarrel quite a lot it seems. They even fight.”
21: Incubator
T HE MASKS HAD been dropped, Trotti noticed as he moved towards the incubator.
“Ivan,” the young doctor said softly as she came to Trotti’s side. “We’ve christened him Ivan.”
They had placed the baby under the plastic dome and he now lay asleep, naked on the sheet. Tubes ran into his arm and into his nostril. They were anchored with plasters. The face and hands were slightly darker than the rest of the body.
“Another few hours and he would have died.”
“Such a little thing,” Ciuffi said. It was as if her face had been lit up.
There was a clip on the lower belly and Trotti noticed that the doctors had neatly cut the umbilical cord. A bandage on his forehead. The face was strangely old and the spiky hair gave the impression of a grown child.
Ivan slept with his minute fists clenched.
“He was kept alive by the good weather we have been having—and by the rain at night. The human body can survive without food—but not without water. These last few days, the weather has grown chill.”
Trotti turned.
“Another night of exposure could have killed him.” An acrylic glass door in the wall of the incubator. The doctor opened it and carefully changed the position of the sleeping baby.
The skin of the groin and at the elbows was wrinkled and reminded Trotti of chicken flesh. He moved away.
The doctor smiled. “I think we were all taken aback. Not every day that you see a newborn child crawling with worms. And a full-length umbilical cord.”
“An attempted abortion?”
“Not possible. It was a bit late for that sort of thing. He weighs two kilos, eight hundred grams. You’re a big boy, aren’t you, precious?” She made gentle sounds and Ciuffi moved to her side, looking down at the minute body. The doctor smiled at Ciuffi and then closed the door. She ran her finger down the scale on the thermostat.
“If the mother didn’t want the baby, couldn’t she have had an abortion earlier—before it was too late?” Ciuffi asked.
The doctor looked at the young policewoman thoughtfully, then shrugged. She wore a gold crucifix at her neck and the lead of her stethoscope hung from the pocket of her blouse. Not very attractive, but with a kind, intelligent
“What happened yesterday, Brigadiere?”
“Pisanelli is supposed to be working for you and not for Commissario Merenda.”
“Merenda’s a nuisance and I’d be grateful if he used his own men rather than poaching mine.”
Her hands were delicate and clean. She moved the steering wheel with short precise movements. A smile at the edge of her lips.
They reached the bridge just as the Genoa train pulled out of the station below them. “A lot of people believe that Commissario Merenda is bringing new life to the Questura. New life and new dynamism.”
“Then he doesn’t need Pisanelli.” Trotti’s voice was cold. “What happened yesterday, Ciuffi?”
Another layer of mask.
“Well, Brigadiere?”
“I checked with the registry office.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” She shrugged. “Just that the records show Signora Vardin is not the first Signora Vardin.”
“What?”
“His second wife.”
The traffic policeman in the middle of the road beckoned them on. He glanced at their number plate but there was no recognition in his eyes as he watched Trotti and Ciuffi drive past. He did not salute.
Past the enormous billboard advertising the local fur atelier.
“Is that important?”
“It could be.” The mask now hid all emotion. “Because it means that little Laura and Antonetta are not sisters.”
“Of course they’re sisters.”
“The same mother, Commissario. But not the same father. They are stepsisters. And from what I can gather, they don’t get on very well. Netta seems to think that Laura is too spoiled. They quarrel quite a lot it seems. They even fight.”
21: Incubator
T HE MASKS HAD been dropped, Trotti noticed as he moved towards the incubator.
“Ivan,” the young doctor said softly as she came to Trotti’s side. “We’ve christened him Ivan.”
They had placed the baby under the plastic dome and he now lay asleep, naked on the sheet. Tubes ran into his arm and into his nostril. They were anchored with plasters. The face and hands were slightly darker than the rest of the body.
“Another few hours and he would have died.”
“Such a little thing,” Ciuffi said. It was as if her face had been lit up.
There was a clip on the lower belly and Trotti noticed that the doctors had neatly cut the umbilical cord. A bandage on his forehead. The face was strangely old and the spiky hair gave the impression of a grown child.
Ivan slept with his minute fists clenched.
“He was kept alive by the good weather we have been having—and by the rain at night. The human body can survive without food—but not without water. These last few days, the weather has grown chill.”
Trotti turned.
“Another night of exposure could have killed him.” An acrylic glass door in the wall of the incubator. The doctor opened it and carefully changed the position of the sleeping baby.
The skin of the groin and at the elbows was wrinkled and reminded Trotti of chicken flesh. He moved away.
The doctor smiled. “I think we were all taken aback. Not every day that you see a newborn child crawling with worms. And a full-length umbilical cord.”
“An attempted abortion?”
“Not possible. It was a bit late for that sort of thing. He weighs two kilos, eight hundred grams. You’re a big boy, aren’t you, precious?” She made gentle sounds and Ciuffi moved to her side, looking down at the minute body. The doctor smiled at Ciuffi and then closed the door. She ran her finger down the scale on the thermostat.
“If the mother didn’t want the baby, couldn’t she have had an abortion earlier—before it was too late?” Ciuffi asked.
The doctor looked at the young policewoman thoughtfully, then shrugged. She wore a gold crucifix at her neck and the lead of her stethoscope hung from the pocket of her blouse. Not very attractive, but with a kind, intelligent
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