His brain will stop buzzing and his eyes will grow weary and then he’ll nod off.
Fantastic.
He surfs the net for ten minutes. He checks out the LA Times sports pages and scrolls through the latest on the Lakers and Dodgers. He even finds out how the Clippers, Kings and Ducks are doing.
Sleep still seems a long way off.
He can’t even glimpse it hiding around the corner.
Tom reaches down the bed to recover his trousers. He pulls out the napkin that Alfie wrote on at La Rambla.
He might as well start a virtual search of the temples.
A is for Apollo Sosianus.
The site takes him to pictures of the Field of Mars – just walking distance from where he found the murdered man. The site shows that nothing remains of the temple except three tall columns. Accompanying text says there was once a cult of Apollo, established outside the pomerium, the sacred boundary of Rome ploughed by Romulus.
Tom Googles Apollo and sees nothing he doesn’t already know.
The guy was a superhero. As famous in Greece as he was in Rome. Son of Zeus and Leto, brother of Artemis, the god of everything from archery to medicine, music to poetry.
He gets a bad feeling as he looks at a second-century marble of Apollo holding a lyre and a python.
Snakes always give him bad feelings.
But there are no triangles. No rituals or stories of severed hands to link the deity with his modern-day case.
He goes back to the home page.
B is for Bellona.
This is a temple close to that of Apollo and was dedicated to a goddess of war who seemed to have Etruscan origins. Her followers were said to have syncretised their beliefs with those of another sect, that of the Magna Mater. The web page shows a painting of Bellona by Rembrandt, and Tom wonders if he’s ever seen a woman look so masculine. Below it is a bronze by Rodin that makes her look a little more feminine.
He flicks back to pictures of the temple.
It’s in ruins. Nothing except broken chunks of marble and busted pillars.
Only a single podium still stands as a reminder of the powerful building that was once there.
He closes his eyes for a second and thinks about what C might be for.
He doesn’t find out.
Sleep finally comes, right at the wrong moment.
44
A windy morning miraculously morphs into a mild and sunny lunchtime.
It’s a long way until spring but is still warm enough for Valentina to take her tray of food to a table on the patio outside the police canteen.
She’s more than ready for the break.
The morning has been brutal.
First the bad news from the forensic labs, then the strange report Federico has just phoned in from the mortuary.
A dead eunuch?
What sense does that make?
She takes a tomato salad, two slices of fresh rustic bread, an espresso and a glass of water off her tray.
While she eats with just a fork, she stifles a yawn and scribbles in her notebook.
The body by the Tiber is a major development, but it’s also a huge distraction. All the real clues to cracking the case surely lie in the multiple personalities of the woman they are calling Prisoner X, the thin slip of a thing confined to a hospital bed at the Policlinico.
Valentina downs her espresso and quickly sketches out names, ages and the briefest of details presented by the suspect’s several personalities.
The small chart makes fascinating reading.
Suzanna and Little Suzie seem to be the two contemporary personalities, while Claudia and Cassandra – both classic Roman names – are the ‘legendary’ alters.
Little Suzie alluded to the fact that there were many others.
Are there really more? Questions stick like bugs on a wind-screen.
Why do two of the personalities use the name Suzanna? Valentina thinks there’s a psychological reason – maybe a bridge to her real life. It could be that Suzanna is the name of someone who’s been kind to her, supported her through difficult times, or perhaps it’s someone she admired.
Valentina has already made sure the Carabinieri’s records team has checked out the surname Grecoraci.
They drew blanks.
So too did the hospital’s own enquiries.
No one with that name fitting Suzanna’s age and physical description has shown up on any official records anywhere across Italy. But to the best of Valentina’s knowledge, no one has run a check on Suzanna Fratelli. She makes a note to action the search – and also for Cassandra Fratelli and Claudia Fratelli.
The sky is starting to cloud over and the warmth is disappearing from the patio. She heads back inside and leaves her food tray on a lopsided rack by the canteen door. She takes the stairs rather than the lift and thinks about calling Tom before she enters what she knows will be a dreadful meeting with Caesario.
Predictably, Armando Caesario’s office is one of the grandest in the building. Occupying a south-facing corner position with enough floor space to double as a parade ground.
The wooden floor is dark and polished and creaks as she walks over it. To her left is a seating area, marked by a large Indian rug full of deep reds and two chestnut-coloured leather settees. The rest of the room is dominated by a giant mahogany desk straight in front of her. The small man sitting behind it is backlit by a large sash window with a view across the city. Old hardback chairs covered in faded brown leather stand to attention to the front and flanks of the major’s desk. This is not a room where anyone is meant to feel at ease.
‘Sit!’ Caesario mumbles through his chins while he finishes writing.
There’s a knock on the door behind Valentina.
‘Enter!’
Even before Valentina turns her head, she knows who it is.
Lieutenant Federico Assante walks noisily across the wood. Without speaking, he takes the chair at the end of the desk. The one nearest Caesario.
The major downs his pen. He clasps his hands and looks up at them both. His face bears the expression of a disappointed father who’s gathered his wayward children for a scolding. ‘Captain Morassi – it’s been brought to my attention that you have without authorisation involved a civilian in a major criminal investigation and as a consequence probably compromised our enquiries.’
Valentina gazes blankly at her superior officer. ‘I don’t believe anything has been compromised, sir. With respect, the civilian’s involvement advanced our enquiries rather than compromised them.’
Caesario sighs and leans back in his big leather chair. ‘How so?’
Valentina shoots Federico a withering look. ‘The man you are referring to is Tom Shaman. He worked with me on the serial murder case in Venice that you know of and he proved invaluable to our units there. If you wish, I’m sure Major Vito Carvalho will vouch for his integrity. My-’
‘ Ex- Major Carvalho,’ interjects Caesario, ‘and to be honest, I don’t wish. Captain, I didn’t ask you for a character reference, I asked you to substantiate your claim that this man advanced our enquiries.’
‘Sir, Tom discovered the body. He happened to be with me when I visited the Ponte Fabricio with Louisa Verdetti, the clinical director of the Policlinico Umberto.’
‘Stop!’ Caesario raises his hand like a traffic cop. ‘Let me back up here. Lieutenant Assante, were you not the
