himself in a long, airy studio filled with light that danced off polished chairs and tables, tall walnut cabinets and gilt- frame paintings. A high rack of books ran one length of the room. At the end Bernard Santacroce sat at an ornate desk, his heavy body twisted round in a captain’s chair, his face bloodied and racked with agony.
Cecilia Gabriel was over him, half on the desk, half on his knees, her right arm arcing backward and forward.
The only sound was that of the man’s racked breathing and the repetitive slash of knife against flesh.
The uniform had his gun out again.
Costa glared at him and snapped out an order to put it away.
By the time he got to the desk it was over. Bernard Santacroce, Simon Gabriel. . There was no saving him. The woman’s fierce torrent of hatred had taken his life just as surely as the cobblestones of the Via Beatrice Cenci stole away that of his elder brother. Now Cecilia Gabriel sat over him, the bloodied blade still in her right hand, gasping, from effort, from emotion, her blue eyes icy with fury.
‘Signora,’ said a voice from behind.
He turned. It was Falcone. Himself again, though his lean face looked a little more bloodless than usual. He was holding out his hand, staring at the woman locked above the dead Santacroce as if she were a partner in some bloody tableau, one disturbed before it had reached its final scene.
She dragged herself off the desk, off the man, walked towards them and placed the long, stained knife in Falcone’s outstretched fingers.
‘There, Inspector,’ Cecilia Gabriel said. ‘You wanted to find yourself a murderer. Now you have.’
Costa’s eyes fell to the expanse of verdant lawn outside. The girl sat near the fountain at its centre, knees drawn up to her chin like a child, face hidden in her skinny arms, a tight, hunched bundle of misery struggling to withdraw herself from the bright, golden day.
PART ELEVEN
ONE
Eight days later Costa found himself alone outside the tiny pink-washed church of San Tommaso ai Cenci, in the little square at the summit of the gentle mound behind the bleak old palace where Beatrice had lived. There were so many churches in Rome, and this one was unremarkable except for its connections.
He watched the small crowd of mourners, mostly women, dressed in black, enter through the narrow single door. When they were inside, and he began to hear the tremulous tones of an organ, Costa came out of the shadows and walked up to the facade, trying to remember enough Latin to decipher the inscription on the imperial tombstone set high on the wall, between two tiny circular windows that would surely have allowed in little light. The Cenci, who had built this terraced place of worship, seemed to thrive in darkness. He could read a name on the tombstone: Marcus Cincius Theophilus. Cenci. Cincius. One of their ancestors, or so the family had wished to think.
And four centuries on Romans still gathered here each year to mark the execution of Beatrice. There were flowers on the Ponte Sant’Angelo that morning. Some worshippers would, he knew, visit the spacious interior of Montorio on the Gianicolo hill opposite, wondering as they prayed whether any trace of the Cenci girl still remained in the dun, dry earth beneath its marble stones.
No one would mourn the man who, in Rome, had called himself Bernard Santacroce. His body still lay in the Questura morgue, awaiting instructions, and would probably remain there for months to come. Cecilia Gabriel had made it plain she would not be responsible for any burial. No other relatives existed. The British and American authorities had expressed an interest in the case immediately Santacroce’s true identity became known. Simon Gabriel, it seemed, was a man with an international reputation, wanted around the world for drug and people smuggling, money laundering, fraud, a litany of twenty-first-century sins. All of them pursued, for almost a decade, from behind the genteel walls of the Palazzetto Santacroce, a property he had bought back from a distant relative, apparently through legitimate means, and used as an opaque front for his activities.
The legal accountants were now poring over Santacroce’s empire and finding, for the most part, little but obfuscation and mystery. The palazzetto itself had been signed over to the Confraternita delle Civette, the charitable organization he had revived in order to lend his presence in Rome some plausibility. Control of that would now, ironically, fall to his sister-in-law, Cecilia Gabriel, the woman who had been charged over his death. She had been released on bail after a brief court appearance for manslaughter, a heroine it seemed to the Roman crowds, who had followed the story of this English family with the same voracious appetite that their predecessors, four centuries before, had shown towards the Cenci.
Some things never changed in this city, Costa thought to himself. Though there was, perhaps, a little more mercy now. Everyone knew that the Gabriel woman would never see the inside of a jail. She’d lost her husband, her son, and the honour and dignity of her daughter. The popular consensus was that she had done nothing wrong. That a crime committed in the defence of innocence was no real crime at all. Beatrice and her stepmother went to the scaffold; Mina and Cecilia Gabriel stepped onto the front pages of the newspapers and magazines, becoming a
Costa had taken Falcone’s advice and gone back on holiday. The two men needed a little distance between them. Both had recognized this. Falcone himself had taken sudden leave and disappeared to Sardinia to stay with an old colleague from the Questura. This case had tested their closeness and left each a little wary of the future. The younger officer was growing, working towards the inevitable, the next promotion, a rank that would one day equal that of Falcone. He did not feel in any way in competition with a man he regarded as both mentor and one of his closest friends. Yet the Gabriel case had created difficulties that would not easily disappear. Falcone hated mistakes, in himself most of all. The hurt he felt for the way he pursued Mina and Cecilia Gabriel would, Costa judged, take some time to subside.
Investigations such as these always possessed some kind of aftermath, a lingering sense of doubt and failure. This one in particular.
He’d stayed at home as Falcone had suggested, calling Agata, who’d gone to the convention in Milan with her boss, with no success. Concerned, Costa had phoned her school repeatedly only to be told she wasn’t there. The messages he left on her phone went unanswered until two days before, when a single text promised that she was fine and would soon be back in Rome.
So he worked on the Vespa, painting out more rust, tidied the garden, and paid a neighbour to harvest the vines and take away the grapes to be made into the usual soft red table wine, the humblest of vintages, that his field produced.
And from time to time he visited the Questura, forensic in particular, asking questions. He was the only one to do so. The matter was closed, with gratitude mostly. The tantalizing, unanswered details shelved. Why spend money out of academic interest? Bernard Santacroce, Simon Gabriel, the monster at the heart of this tragedy, was dead.
The singing ceased in the church opposite. Someone came and threw open the shiny green wooden door into San Tommaso ai Cenci. Costa retreated back into the shadow beneath the wall of the vast, sprawling palace that overlooked this tiny piazza.
He barely recognized Mina when she came out. Her hair was cut short and dyed a chestnut colour. She wore large black sunglasses to hide her features, which was understandable since her face was now well known in Rome. With her black skirt, black jacket and white shirt she could have been twenty or more, no longer the child in pink pyjamas he’d seen curled into a close ball of agony on the lawn of the Palazzetto Santacroce a week before.
Without a word to any other mourner she set off on foot, back down the alley, towards the Via Beatrice Cenci and the river. The route to the tower of the Casina delle Civette, the place that, in spite of all its memories, still seemed to be home.
He followed her from a distance, across the busy Via Arenula where she waited for a tram from Trastevere to pass, then on into the dark nexus of lanes that led towards the Campo dei Fiori. When she went back into the palazzetto he found his courage failing.
In a tiny cafe near the footbridge across the river he drank a macchiato slowly, called Agata again and got no
