Behind them, Tom sees the key slots and mail for a total of seventeen rooms. There are no frequent-visitor leaflets and nothing promoting other hotels across Italy or Europe. He guesses the place is probably family-owned and not part of a chain.
All pluses in his book.
Valentina dangles a brass key and a warm smile before him.
He follows her upstairs to a first-floor bedroom.
It’s decorated in soft peach and gentle gold, with matching ceiling-to-floor curtains and a bed large enough to land an Airbus on.
Valentina kicks off her shoes and throws her coat on the quilt. ‘Wine! I don’t care what colour or temperature, just open some, please. I’m going to the bathroom.’
Tom finds the minibar.
He selects two small screw-top bottles of Frascati and empties them into glasses. Valentina reappears from the bathroom and all but downs the cold white before sitting on the bed alongside him. ‘I was just thinking, now that work isn’t in the way, we should do something touristy. You’ve not seen anything of Rome except police stations and bodies, so let’s fix that.’
He touches her face. ‘I’ve seen everything I want.’
‘Aaah, you say all the right things.’
He puts an arm around her and kisses the side of her forehead. ‘I’m happy just to grab dinner here and stay in the hotel if you prefer.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I’d like to get out. I don’t want to sit and brood. I need to move around and be distracted.’
A muffled ring fights its way out from the pocket of the crumpled coat she’s thrown on the bed.
Valentina ignores it.
She sips her wine and it rings again.
Tom unfolds the coat and offers her the noisy pocket. ‘Maybe it’s good news.’
She doubts it. She dips her hand in and takes out her phone.
Tom goes back to the minibar in search of more wine. By the time he’s retrieved some from the back of the bottom shelf, she’s finished the call.
Her face looks as empty as their glasses.
‘It was Federico. He’s been suspended as well.’
72
Guilio Brygus Angelis doesn’t go back to the stinking hole he calls home.
He may never go back.
The cops didn’t find anything there, he’s sure of that, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before they get lucky.
He learned that a long time ago.
You can take all the precautions in the world, but if you hang around in the same place too long, eventually the cops get lucky. They talk to neighbours, shopkeepers, local kids. They get a hold of you.
Well, he won’t be staying around long enough for that to happen.
It’s starting to rain – a shower, that’s all – but he backs up into the doorway of a cheap souvenir shop.
Doorways are always good places to be.
And this is an excellent one.
It’s the perfect place to watch the comings and goings at the Carabinieri command building right opposite him.
He’s amazed by how many cops come out to smoke.
No sooner are they through the front doors than their big cop hands are jabbing filters in their snarky little mouths and they’re lighting up.
Lieutenant Assante throws down a match as he lights up and walks out into the rain.
Guilio follows him to his car, a beat-up Lancia parked a block away.
Doesn’t look as though the Carabinieri pay very well. There’s a child seat in the back. No doubt his money goes on his kid, or kids. He looks like the type who’ll have as many as his wife will make him.
Guilio notes the number and watches as the cop climbs in and drives off without even putting on his seat belt.
Reckless.
The guy is just asking for trouble.
73
Drinking and walking are universal answers to most problems.
When the minibar is dry, Valentina resorts to the latter.
Motion to cope with emotion.
Lots of emotion.
In fact, she’s fired up and emotional enough to walk the length of the Appian Way, and then some.
She’s proud of the career she’s built herself. Rightly so. Proud of the crimes she’s solved, the people she’s helped and all the badasses she’s locked up.
How dare a sexist dinosaur like Caesario try to take that away from her?
She walks Tom all the way out to the Piazza Navona, but to no avail. Bernini’s ever-flowing Fontana dei Fiumi does nothing to lighten her mood.
From there she drags him east through the back streets, across Corso del Rinascimento and Via della Rotonda to the awe-inspiring Pantheon.
Inside, neither of them manages more than marginal interest in the guide’s stories of Agrippa, Hadrian, Constantine and the dozens of other historic figures who created, refurbished, worshipped or were buried beneath its famous dome.
The walking and the sights aren’t working.
Valentina just can’t clear her mind.
As the night starts to frost up and their feet begin to break down, they seek refuge in a touristy restaurant off Via della Fontanella di Borghese.
Tom chooses octopus cooked in a light tomato sauce with pecorino cheese, followed by mezze maniche pasta with bacon.
Valentina isn’t that hungry, but gets tempted by a light tempura of baccala and anchovies, followed by a small portion of tagliatelle with artichokes.
They pick out a reasonable bottle of Amarone della Valpolicella and try to talk about anything and everything except her suspension and the case she’s been taken off.
Only when a second bottle has been opened does she feel ready to stop avoiding things. ‘I suppose tomorrow I should find myself a solicitor.’
‘Don’t rush into it. Things could look different in the morning.’
‘I won’t, but I need representation.’ She stares out of the window at the bright lights and the crowds of noisy strangers, and feels isolated and vulnerable. ‘This isn’t my city, Tom. Aside from you, I don’t have friends here.’
He tries to reassure her. ‘You probably have more people on your side than you think.’
‘I doubt it.’ She swills wine in her glass. ‘When will you need to leave?’
The questions stings. ‘Not until you tell me to.’
‘ Grazie.’ His gesture of kindness makes her feel tearful. The only other person who would have been this
