The Fallen Angel

The girl holding the Hasselblad pressed a couple of buttons. The back came off. Then, as Costa watched, she somehow managed to unlatch the cover and he caught a glimpse of dull grey emulsion.

‘Remind me,’ she said, looking a little puzzled. ‘Film?’

Age could prove a terrible divide on occasion. A good half of the people in the room were already staring in horror at the brief length of exposed stock in the Hasselblad, open to the bright light of the floods that was already wiping away any image it might once have held. The rest looked baffled, as if trying to retrieve some distant memory of a time when photographs didn’t appear instantly on the back of a little digital screen.

Di Capua was on her in a flash, snatching away the camera back with a ferocity that left the trainee shocked and reeling, then fumbling it back onto the body as best he could.

‘Did I do something bad?’ she asked, suddenly close to tears.

‘Again,’ Di Capua snapped. ‘Get in there.’

He pointed to the door in the corner.

‘The dark place?’ she asked.

‘The dark place,’ he agreed, half-pushing her ahead of him.

Costa put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him, and asked, ‘How much is a camera like that worth, Silvio?’

The young pathologist paused for a moment, thinking, turning the camera round and round in his gloved fingers.

‘Late eighties, 503CW. Eighty-millimetre planar lens.’ A closer look, an admiring glance. ‘No scratches. Not a sign of fungus.’ He winced. ‘You’ve got to be looking at a thousand euros. You could pay that new for the lens alone. This thing’s mint. Doesn’t look as if it’s ever set foot outside this place.’

‘Thanks.’ Costa looked at Falcone and knew the inspector had to be thinking the same thing. A piece of equipment like this was surely beyond the reach of Malise Gabriel.

‘Men and their toys,’ Teresa said. ‘They can be starving and their families near destitute. But if something’s shiny and smells of sex. .’

TWO

Narcotics owned most of the west wing on the third floor of the Questura, a chaotic, rambling network of rooms where uniforms were rare and it was often difficult to tell the difference between police officers and their clientele. Costa was surprised to see that he already knew one of the two officers assigned to brief them. Rosa Prabakaran looked hollow-eyed and exhausted, thinner than the last time they’d met. She was wearing the kind of clothes, a short skirt, a tight and bright-checked thin sweater, that passed unnoticed in the places where Costa guessed she now worked. Rosa had been part of Falcone’s team until recently. She had served alongside Costa before, most recently during a terrorist attack on the city during a G8 summit. After that case, ambition took her elsewhere, to external courses and then another department altogether, the standard route to promotion. Costa had lost touch with her, which he regretted. Roman-born to an Indian father, she’d cut a solitary and private figure in the Questura. Her colleague was new to Costa, a cocky Venetian of thirty or so called Gino Riggi, stocky, with the physique of a rugby player, close-cropped dark hair and a stubbly face that smiled often, without humour or sincerity.

Peroni cleared his throat after the four of them sat at a table in the one empty interview room and said, ‘Robert Gabriel. What we need-’

‘Wait,’ the Venetian interrupted, grinning. ‘Let me get this straight. You. .’ He pointed straight at Peroni. ‘. . are the agente here. And you. .’ Costa. ‘. . are the sovrintendente?’

‘Correct,’ Costa said. ‘But really I’m on holiday. So just answer the questions, will you? I’m a good listener.’

He’d taken a rapid dislike to this man for some reason. Judging from the way Rosa gave Peroni some sideways glances, she felt much the same way.

‘Sir!’ Riggi said with a mock salute. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Where can we find him?’ Peroni asked.

Riggi shrugged.

‘No idea. Can’t help you.’

‘Gianni-’ Rosa began.

‘Can’t. . help. . you,’ the Venetian cut in, his voice getting louder.

Peroni folded his arms and stared across the table.

‘Got a picture of him?’

‘Never had the reason.’

‘A list of addresses for his friends?’

‘I don’t keep his diary.’

‘Details of who he worked for?’

‘Details?’ Riggi frowned. ‘Not really.’

Rosa said, ‘We think he was tied to one of the Turkish gangs. The Vadisi. The Wolves. Selling. Delivering. He’s just a low-grade street kid. Really, not the kind we’d take much interest in usually. He was active. Pushing a lot. But if you pick them up they won’t tell you a thing. It’s too dangerous. Besides, what’ve we got to offer them? The Turks give them money. Dope. Girls. I think they’ve got some places where they can stay. Maybe. .’

‘We don’t know where he is,’ Riggi insisted.

Costa leaned over the table and said, ‘He’s the prime suspect in a murder.’

The slick-looking cop shrugged.

‘You’re looking in the wrong place. He’s just some stuck-up English kid who’s making a little money passing pills and smoke to his buddies. Didn’t have it in him to kill someone. You got proof that says otherwise?’

‘Early days,’ Peroni replied.

‘I thought not. Listen. I’m telling you. Look somewhere else. Robert Gabriel isn’t a murderer. You’re wasting your time. And mine.’

Peroni caught Costa’s eye then said, ‘We could always requisition the informants’ register if you like. Or shall we just save everyone some time and hear it from you right now?’

Riggi let loose with a vile curse then slammed his fists on the table.

‘What is it with you people?’ he yelled. ‘Do you have any idea of the kind of work we do?’

‘Did it myself, son,’ Peroni snapped back. ‘Twenty years ago. Don’t get smart. There’s only one reason for you to protect this Gabriel kid.’

‘Twenty years ago was different! You had. .’ Riggi looked lost for a moment, as if trying to remember something that had long eluded him. ‘There was some kind of sense of right or wrong out there. Listen to me. It’s gone. We’re trying to police people who don’t want to be policed. Victims and bad guys. None of them trusts us. None of them thinks we belong out there.’

Costa sighed and said, ‘Do you really think it’s different for anyone else in this building?’

‘Yes,’ Riggi replied. ‘And if I get someone who just might talk to me now and again I will not hand him over on a bunch of stupid coincidences.’ He scowled. It suited the stubble somehow. ‘Even if I did know where he is, and I don’t. Listen. Gabriel has been mildly useful to me, to us, in the past. In the future he could be a lot more help. Maybe take us to some of the Turks who are bringing this shit into the city.’

‘He’s a murder suspect,’ Peroni repeated.

‘I told you that’s not possible.’

Costa thought of Mina and her insistence: he isn’t bad. And that scared tone in the kid’s voice the previous night, as he pressed the gun barrel into Costa’s neck and told him to look at Joanne Van Doren’s swaying corpse because it was nothing to do with him or his family.

For some reason he couldn’t quite explain, Costa felt Robert might be telling the truth. Or a part of it anyway.