innocence of a crime now a prerequisite for being able to investigate it?”
“That’s just clever talk,” Peroni snapped. “Everyone here knows what I mean.”
The room was silent. Then Leo Falcone folded his arms, looked at Peroni, and said, “We do. And in normal circumstances you would be absolutely right. But these circumstances are anything but, I’m afraid.”
“You bet this isn’t normal,” Teresa agreed. “
Normally
I’m fighting to find material to work with. We’re positively dripping in the stuff here. I’ve got blood and semen. DNA aplenty. Silvio? Fetch, boy . . .”
Di Capua went to the rear door, where a pile of transparent plastic evidence bags had grown waist high. He came back with a swift selection. They looked at what lay inside.
“We haven’t had time to take it all away yet,” Teresa continued. “We’ve been too busy digging. There are whips. Flails. Knives. Masks. Some leather items that are a little beyond my imagination. We have a wealth of physical evidence here the likes of which I have never seen in my entire career. We could nail the bastards who killed these women with one-tenth of this evidence. Just point us at a suspect and we’ll tell you yes or no in the blink of an eye. This is the mother lode of all crime scenes. All we need from you is someone to test it against.”
The room was again silent.
“
Well?
” Teresa asked again, somewhat more loudly.
“Let’s take this outside,” Falcone murmured.
Two
I
T WAS FREEZING COLD IN THE CONTROL VAN PARKED AT
the head of the street, by the Piazza Borghese. The interior stank of stale tobacco smoke. The smoke came from a large middle-aged man in a brown overcoat who sat on one of the metal chairs in the van, awaiting their arrival. He introduced himself as Grimaldi from the legal department, then lit another cigarette.
Peroni was the last to sit down at the plain metal table in the centre of the cabin. He took a long, frank look at Falcone, who wasn’t meeting his gaze, then at Susanna Placidi, who’d placed a large notebook computer in front of her and was now staring at the screen, tapping the keyboard with a frantic, uncomfortable nervousness.
“Shouldn’t we have a few more people in on this conversation?” Peroni asked. “Six people murdered. The press going crazy. Is this really just down to us?”
“What you’re about to learn is strictly down to us,” Falcone replied, and cast the woman inspector a savage look. “Tell them.”
Placidi stopped typing and said, “We know who they are.”
The utter lack of enthusiasm and conviction with which she spoke made Costa’s heart sink.
“You know who killed my wife?” he asked quietly.
“We think we can narrow it down to one of four men,” Placidi replied, staring hard at the computer screen.
“And they’re just walking around out there?” Peroni asked, instantly furious, with Teresa beginning to make equally incensed noises by his side.
“For the time being,” Falcone replied, and nodded at Rosa Prabakaran.
Without a word she reached over, took the computer from the uncomplaining Placidi, and began hitting the keys. She found what she wanted, then turned the screen round for them all to see.
It was a photo taken at the Caravaggio exhibition Costa had worked the previous winter, organising security. In it, four men stood in front of the grey, sensual figure of
The Sick Bacchus,
which had been temporarily moved from the Villa Borghese for the event. This, too, was a self-portrait, a younger Caravaggio than that seen in the religious paintings and the
Venus
now undergoing scrutiny under the expert eye of Agata Graziano. Dissolute, saturnine, clutching a bunch of old grapes the same hue as his sallow skin, staring at the viewer, like a whore displaying her wares showing a naked shoulder; despite this, the only focus of hope and light in the entire canvas.
The men in front of the painting looked equally debauched. One, vaguely familiar,
“That’s just clever talk,” Peroni snapped. “Everyone here knows what I mean.”
The room was silent. Then Leo Falcone folded his arms, looked at Peroni, and said, “We do. And in normal circumstances you would be absolutely right. But these circumstances are anything but, I’m afraid.”
“You bet this isn’t normal,” Teresa agreed. “
Normally
I’m fighting to find material to work with. We’re positively dripping in the stuff here. I’ve got blood and semen. DNA aplenty. Silvio? Fetch, boy . . .”
Di Capua went to the rear door, where a pile of transparent plastic evidence bags had grown waist high. He came back with a swift selection. They looked at what lay inside.
“We haven’t had time to take it all away yet,” Teresa continued. “We’ve been too busy digging. There are whips. Flails. Knives. Masks. Some leather items that are a little beyond my imagination. We have a wealth of physical evidence here the likes of which I have never seen in my entire career. We could nail the bastards who killed these women with one-tenth of this evidence. Just point us at a suspect and we’ll tell you yes or no in the blink of an eye. This is the mother lode of all crime scenes. All we need from you is someone to test it against.”
The room was again silent.
“
Well?
” Teresa asked again, somewhat more loudly.
“Let’s take this outside,” Falcone murmured.
Two
I
T WAS FREEZING COLD IN THE CONTROL VAN PARKED AT
the head of the street, by the Piazza Borghese. The interior stank of stale tobacco smoke. The smoke came from a large middle-aged man in a brown overcoat who sat on one of the metal chairs in the van, awaiting their arrival. He introduced himself as Grimaldi from the legal department, then lit another cigarette.
Peroni was the last to sit down at the plain metal table in the centre of the cabin. He took a long, frank look at Falcone, who wasn’t meeting his gaze, then at Susanna Placidi, who’d placed a large notebook computer in front of her and was now staring at the screen, tapping the keyboard with a frantic, uncomfortable nervousness.
“Shouldn’t we have a few more people in on this conversation?” Peroni asked. “Six people murdered. The press going crazy. Is this really just down to us?”
“What you’re about to learn is strictly down to us,” Falcone replied, and cast the woman inspector a savage look. “Tell them.”
Placidi stopped typing and said, “We know who they are.”
The utter lack of enthusiasm and conviction with which she spoke made Costa’s heart sink.
“You know who killed my wife?” he asked quietly.
“We think we can narrow it down to one of four men,” Placidi replied, staring hard at the computer screen.
“And they’re just walking around out there?” Peroni asked, instantly furious, with Teresa beginning to make equally incensed noises by his side.
“For the time being,” Falcone replied, and nodded at Rosa Prabakaran.
Without a word she reached over, took the computer from the uncomplaining Placidi, and began hitting the keys. She found what she wanted, then turned the screen round for them all to see.
It was a photo taken at the Caravaggio exhibition Costa had worked the previous winter, organising security. In it, four men stood in front of the grey, sensual figure of
The Sick Bacchus,
which had been temporarily moved from the Villa Borghese for the event. This, too, was a self-portrait, a younger Caravaggio than that seen in the religious paintings and the
Venus
now undergoing scrutiny under the expert eye of Agata Graziano. Dissolute, saturnine, clutching a bunch of old grapes the same hue as his sallow skin, staring at the viewer, like a whore displaying her wares showing a naked shoulder; despite this, the only focus of hope and light in the entire canvas.
The men in front of the painting looked equally debauched. One, vaguely familiar,
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