The Fallen Angel

odd since the derivation is Latin, of course. I suppose the closest translation would be along the lines of “sottomesso alla moglie”, though it’s not quite the same. Malise was uxorious in the sense that he was utterly devoted to her, and to his family, to the extent that he was almost beneath their thumb. Not literally. He could shout and rant for England when he chose. Nevertheless he was consumed by a fear that he would somehow fail them. Understandable really. He’d done it often enough in the past. The idea that he might stumble one last time — and, trust me, this was his final chance of any gainful academic employment — made him a little weak, to be frank. Call me old-fashioned but I believe a man should be the head of his family in all matters. Had he fulfilled that role, perhaps his unfortunate son wouldn’t now be running round Rome in the company of drug dealers.’

Santacroce picked up a pen and made a note to himself on a pad on the desk.

‘Let me be candid with you. I’m no fool. I’ve no illusions about my own talents. Without. .’ A glance around the room. ‘. . all this I’d be nothing. A middling degree from Oxford gets you nowhere. Malise was a genius of a kind. A somewhat diverted one, but a genius nonetheless. Had he kept good counsel and his hands to himself, he’d probably be master of a college by now. Instead he was little more than an itinerant and very intelligent beggar dependent upon the mercy of lesser men like me. He had no discipline. No sense of politics. His emotions got the better of him and he, and his family, suffered the consequences. I did my best to help and found myself threatened as a result. They had to go. There was no option. How Cecilia coped with him. .’ For the briefest of moments he appeared almost regretful. ‘. . I really can’t begin to imagine.’

‘Was he violent towards her?’ Peroni wanted to know.

‘I’ve no idea. Nor do I wish to know. Ask her. I will send you this paper of mine provided you agree to keep it private. It’s not yet ready for publication. Malise never finished the task I gave him. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?’

Falcone put away his notebook.

‘You can direct us to the office Gabriel used when he worked here. We’d like to look around.’

‘The ground floor,’ Santacroce said. ‘Where you came in. They were the servants’ quarters originally. It was the only place I could put him.’

Peroni stood up and eyed the large canvas next to the grandfather clock.

‘It’s Galileo, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘When they called him to the Inquisition?’

Santacroce nodded.

‘What cultured policemen we have these days. It’s a little over-dramatic for my taste but there you go. Galileo Galilei was a greatly misunderstood man. He was much more than a scientist. A philosopher too. Without him mathematics, astronomy, physics. . none would have been the same, perhaps for centuries.’

‘He still found himself arguing for his life,’ Peroni replied.

‘He did. Which was wrong. This brotherhood was founded to defend him, to let him know he wasn’t alone. We do not forget what our cousin from Pisa did for us. Every work that appears under the name of the Confraternita delle Civette must, by order of our constitution, make some reference to him also, however slight. It’s one of the few rules we have. My own paper, the one that Malise found somewhat obnoxious, is entitled “E pur si muove”, a phrase that. .’

Santacroce stopped in mid-sentence, smiled awkwardly. The attention this comment had raised in the two police officers had brought the slightest rush of colour in his face.

‘It’s a technical term,’ he added quickly. ‘You wouldn’t know what it means.’

‘No,’ Peroni agreed. ‘But my friend might. Please.’ He pulled out his notebook and pen and handed it over. ‘Write it down for me. I’d like to look it up. I’d like to learn.’

Bernard Santacroce passed the notebook back, the page blank.

‘As I have already indicated, I will ask Cecilia to give you a copy,’ he said, then gestured towards the door.

SIX

Costa followed Mina’s instructions as they wound down the hill from Montorio, back into the centro storico. After a while he began to understand where they were going, and the knowledge left a cold feeling in his stomach.

The Museo Criminologico was an outpost of the Ministry of Justice in the Via del Gonfalone, a cul-de-sac between the Via Giulia and the Lungotevere. This was the Italian state’s official black museum, a place he had visited as a cadet, one that had filled him with horror, with nausea. He could still recall dashing out into the street, taking deep breaths, staring at a chilly winter sky, the first time he’d been forced to visit. The next, a kind of punishment for his perceived weakness, went more easily. He’d been a police officer for a few months by then, and had become. . desensitized was the word the college instructor had uttered. It still amazed Costa that the term had been used as if it were praise. As if that was the point of the process of becoming a police officer. To feel less yet somehow see more. If anyone else noticed the contradiction they never mentioned it.

‘Are you all right?’ Mina asked as he leaned on the parked scooter for a moment.

‘Just remembering something,’ he said, and walked up to the door, flashed his ID and walked in.

‘You don’t have to pay for much, do you?’ she said as she joined him.

Costa tried to smile when he told her, ‘I wouldn’t pay for this.’ It was late afternoon, a little early, but right then a beer would have been wonderful. ‘Afterwards I’ll buy us some ice cream.’

The tears were gone. The pretty, somewhat overactive yet cerebral teenager was back.

‘Or even a lollipop,’ she replied, her head cocked to one side. Then she stepped inside, ahead of him.

SEVEN

Silvio Di Capua frowned at the corpse on the table. The day had not gone the way it was supposed to. When he finally started on the preliminary autopsy he had begun under the impression he possessed two firm findings. Now their certainty seemed to be drowned in a sea of doubts, with insufficient time to dispel or clarify even a handful. He needed additional advice before he could proceed with the full autopsy. An expert. Nor was it proving easy to extract information from the dead man’s medical records.

The young pathologist muttered a quiet curse, swallowed his pride and called her. Teresa was still in the apartment in the Via Beatrice Cenci. She’d been there for the best part of six hours and now sounded harassed and a little cross.

‘Find anything?’ Di Capua asked.

‘Ever tried looking for evidence on a building site? The muck and dust these people leave behind them. .’

‘I have, actually. Several times. You just need to be patient and a little creative. It can be quite rewarding.’

‘Thank you for that comforting advice. I’ll bear it in mind. We’re not having any luck tracking down the stuff that got cleared out of here either. It sounds as if a lot went to some dump out in the hills.’

‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘I never realized the construction industry’s waste-disposal people were so efficient.’

‘Well, since you’re so expert in these things, Silvio, I’ll let you go down there to see if we can extract something out of it.’

He liked that idea and said so.

‘But you did find something?’ he asked.

‘We’ve found very little really. About half an hour ago, underneath a thick layer of dust, we picked up a blood stain on the side of a radiator in the girl’s room. Near the windows. I’ve sent someone back with a sample.’

‘You won’t get an answer till the morning. August, remember. It’s like. . like a morgue here!’

‘If you crack that joke one more time I will, I swear, eviscerate you. With a teaspoon.’

It was an old one, he realized.