Placidi objected.
Falcone sighed. “No. They are not simply cuts. One perhaps. Two. But . . .”
Costa forced himself to examine the photos carefully. In places, the light scars crisscrossed one another, like a sculptor’s hatch marks on some plaster statuette. And something else, too, it occurred to him, and the thought turned his stomach.
“There are too many,” he said. “Also . . . I don’t know if there’s a connection, but Caravaggio made this kind of mark in many of his paintings. His incisions are one way people identify his work.”
He looked hard at the photographs. The small, straight cuts on the woman’s flesh, mostly healed, but a few still red and recent, were horribly similar. He tried to remember where they were on the canvas they had found: on the naked goddess’s upper arms and thighs. Just as with Véronique Gillet.
“The painting—” Costa went on.
“Is a subject for another conversation, and another officer,” Falcone interrupted, and gave him a quick, dark glance. This was not, it seemed, an appropriate moment.
“I know nothing about art,” Teresa Lupo declared. “But I can tell you one thing. She came here to die. Or, more precisely, to make sure that when she died, it happened here, which would suggest to me that she knew this place, knew the people, and certainly knew what went on.” Her bloodless face, expressive in spite of her plain, flat features, flitted to each of them in turn. “But what do I know? You’re the police. You work it out.”
“And the man?” Falcone asked.
“Six stab wounds to the chest, three of them deep enough to be fatal on their own,” Teresa replied immediately, and watched Di Capua take out a folder of large colour photographs, ones no one much wanted to look at. Blood and gore spattered Aldo Caviglia’s white, still-well-ironed shirt. “This is extreme violence I would attribute to a man. Women tend to give up around the third blow or go on a lot longer than this. A couple went into the heart.”
“Aldo was not the kind of man to get involved in nonsense like this,” Peroni protested. “Creepy sex. It’s ridiculous . . .”
“You don’t know that, Gianni,” Costa observed. “How many times did you meet him?”
“Three? Four? How many does it take? He wasn’t that type. Or a voyeur or something. Listen . . . I’ve talked to his neighbours. To his sister. She lives out in Ostia. She works in a bakery. Like he used to.” The big man didn’t like the obvious doubt on their faces. “Also, I spoke to the woman in the cafe down the street. She said someone who sounds like Aldo came in, white to the gills, desperate to find some skinny, red-haired Frenchwoman. He was
trying
to find her. He had her wallet. OK. It’s obvious how that came about. Perhaps . . .” Peroni struggled to find some explanation. “Perhaps he just changed his mind and wanted to give it back.”
“Pickpockets do
that
all the time,” Rosa suggested sarcastically.
“He was not that kind of man,” Peroni said, almost stuttering with anger.
To Costa’s astonishment, Rosa Prabakaran reached out, put her hand on Peroni’s arm, and said, “I believe you, Gianni. Caviglia was a good guy. He just couldn’t keep his hands to himself, but that’s not exactly a unique problem in Rome, is it?”
“You’re in the wrong job,” Peroni replied immediately, pointing a fat finger in the younger officer’s face. “You have something personal going on here. I’m sorry about that, Rosa, not that I imagine it helps. But you should
not
be on a case of this nature. It’s just plain . . . wrong.”
The forensic people were starting to look uncomfortable. So was Teresa Lupo. Her people liked to work without disruptions.
“Why is it wrong?” Rosa asked him, taking her hand away, almost smiling. “There are plenty of officers on this force who’ve been robbed sometime, or beaten up in the street. Does that mean they can’t arrest a thief or a thug? Is
Falcone sighed. “No. They are not simply cuts. One perhaps. Two. But . . .”
Costa forced himself to examine the photos carefully. In places, the light scars crisscrossed one another, like a sculptor’s hatch marks on some plaster statuette. And something else, too, it occurred to him, and the thought turned his stomach.
“There are too many,” he said. “Also . . . I don’t know if there’s a connection, but Caravaggio made this kind of mark in many of his paintings. His incisions are one way people identify his work.”
He looked hard at the photographs. The small, straight cuts on the woman’s flesh, mostly healed, but a few still red and recent, were horribly similar. He tried to remember where they were on the canvas they had found: on the naked goddess’s upper arms and thighs. Just as with Véronique Gillet.
“The painting—” Costa went on.
“Is a subject for another conversation, and another officer,” Falcone interrupted, and gave him a quick, dark glance. This was not, it seemed, an appropriate moment.
“I know nothing about art,” Teresa Lupo declared. “But I can tell you one thing. She came here to die. Or, more precisely, to make sure that when she died, it happened here, which would suggest to me that she knew this place, knew the people, and certainly knew what went on.” Her bloodless face, expressive in spite of her plain, flat features, flitted to each of them in turn. “But what do I know? You’re the police. You work it out.”
“And the man?” Falcone asked.
“Six stab wounds to the chest, three of them deep enough to be fatal on their own,” Teresa replied immediately, and watched Di Capua take out a folder of large colour photographs, ones no one much wanted to look at. Blood and gore spattered Aldo Caviglia’s white, still-well-ironed shirt. “This is extreme violence I would attribute to a man. Women tend to give up around the third blow or go on a lot longer than this. A couple went into the heart.”
“Aldo was not the kind of man to get involved in nonsense like this,” Peroni protested. “Creepy sex. It’s ridiculous . . .”
“You don’t know that, Gianni,” Costa observed. “How many times did you meet him?”
“Three? Four? How many does it take? He wasn’t that type. Or a voyeur or something. Listen . . . I’ve talked to his neighbours. To his sister. She lives out in Ostia. She works in a bakery. Like he used to.” The big man didn’t like the obvious doubt on their faces. “Also, I spoke to the woman in the cafe down the street. She said someone who sounds like Aldo came in, white to the gills, desperate to find some skinny, red-haired Frenchwoman. He was
trying
to find her. He had her wallet. OK. It’s obvious how that came about. Perhaps . . .” Peroni struggled to find some explanation. “Perhaps he just changed his mind and wanted to give it back.”
“Pickpockets do
that
all the time,” Rosa suggested sarcastically.
“He was not that kind of man,” Peroni said, almost stuttering with anger.
To Costa’s astonishment, Rosa Prabakaran reached out, put her hand on Peroni’s arm, and said, “I believe you, Gianni. Caviglia was a good guy. He just couldn’t keep his hands to himself, but that’s not exactly a unique problem in Rome, is it?”
“You’re in the wrong job,” Peroni replied immediately, pointing a fat finger in the younger officer’s face. “You have something personal going on here. I’m sorry about that, Rosa, not that I imagine it helps. But you should
not
be on a case of this nature. It’s just plain . . . wrong.”
The forensic people were starting to look uncomfortable. So was Teresa Lupo. Her people liked to work without disruptions.
“Why is it wrong?” Rosa asked him, taking her hand away, almost smiling. “There are plenty of officers on this force who’ve been robbed sometime, or beaten up in the street. Does that mean they can’t arrest a thief or a thug? Is
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