Christobel Kent - Dead Season

And he stared at her.

‘No,’ he said. ‘What? No.’ Shook his head slowly. ‘He took it. My telefonino . He took it.’

Then put both hands to the sides of his head as if to crush his own skull.

‘Where?’ he said. ‘Where has she gone?’

*

‘The girl,’ Giuli had said. ‘I’m worried about Anna. I think she’s — she could be in trouble. That baby.’

‘Stay calm,’ Luisa had said. ‘As soon as I can come, I’ll be there. Stay calm. We’ll find her.’

Leaning over the hot stone of the parapet and looking down into the river, staring, trying to get some air after the Carnevale’s fetid alley, trying to think straight, Giuli heard the rain come, sweeping down the length of the river. Below her, the creeper-covered awning of the rowing club shivered like an animal in the sudden wind, and the narrow boats moored along the bank clattered against each other. A few big drops, the wind that blinded her and pulled at her hair, flattening the ripples on the water’s surface, then suddenly it was roaring in her ears, a miniature tornado that swept along the embankment and continued past. She turned to watch it go, rubbing her eyes: it was real, she saw the twisting wind move up the side of a building, catch a satellite dish and gleefully wrench it from its moorings. The crash of shutters.

It wasn’t him. That was what Sandro had said. It wasn’t Josef who’d texted her; it was whoever had Josef’s phone. Catch a rabbit to catch a fox: he’d got Anna. Anna the little rabbit, someone had her, the lure to catch Josef, a little rabbit panting in a snare. How could he be sure that Josef would find out? He must be nuts, whoever he was. Or perhaps he knew Josef better than the rest of them.

Think.

And then the rain came in earnest, rushing at her in the wake of the wind, hitting her side on, then it was overhead and coming straight down, and in a second Giuli was drenched. She ran, away from the river, back towards the Carnevale.

In the dark Roxana thought she might be sick. Everything in her strained to keep it at bay. She tried not to breathe through her nose, but she couldn’t put her hand to her mouth for fear of alerting Valentino.

He was holding her hand painfully tight and tugging her now, away from the door.

‘In here,’ he said.

There was some kind of corridor ahead of them, dark as a cellar. She couldn’t stop herself resisting, looking back over her shoulder to the feeble grey light that filtered around the door. Left on the latch: she could just bolt, if his hand wasn’t so tight around hers. She felt choked, something big in her throat at the thought of where he might take her. Anything but further in; she could almost feel the labyrinth of rooms spread around her, a web that might catch her and hold her. She took a step, then another.

They must be somewhere behind the auditorium, deep inside the building. There were no windows.

‘They’ll be here soon,’ said Val, taking something out of his pocket and looking down at it. Roxana realized he was talking to himself. ‘Give it an hour.’

‘Val,’ she said, hating the wheedling sound in her voice, trying to ingratiate herself. Pretend this was normal.

‘Pregnant, though,’ he said, talking to himself. She saw his mouth turn down in an expression of distaste. ‘Messy. We can just shut her in here, keep her quiet. Yes.’

Roxana didn’t know what he meant: didn’t want to know. That chemical smell seemed to ooze from his pores as Valentino came closer to her in the confined space. His breathing was shallow. It must be drugs: why was she so naive? Why hadn’t she known? Because she’d allowed herself to think, Well, Val’s not so bad. He’s just a boy, he’s just a spoiled boy, he could be good at heart. Bantering with his friends in the bar, off rowing after work.

He hadn’t gone rowing, though, had he? After work on Saturday, he hadn’t gone rowing. Waving to her in his singlet, heading this way. She had turned away but then turned back: she’d watched him go towards the river but never get there because he had turned down the alley beside the Carnevale instead. And on Friday night he said he’d passed Marisa outside Claudio’s house: on the way home? Or on the way back into the city?

Overhead there was a strange rushing sound she couldn’t identify, a clatter far above them, and a wind that seemed to make its way inside, a cool swirl of air brushing Roxana’s ankles, a rustling ahead of them as it moved through the building.

‘Was it true?’ she said out loud. ‘About Marisa and Claudio?’

‘She shagged him a few years back,’ he said peremptorily. ‘Scheming bitch.’

‘But you saw her on his doorstep?’

‘I saw her. Wanting her dues. She’s been dumped, and while she’s looking around for the next meal ticket she thought she might touch him for a payment. I know women. Leeching bloody women. Bleed you dry.’

‘Where were you going?’ asked Roxana. ‘Last Friday night?’

Why was she asking? Because she wanted to know? To keep him talking? It occurred to her she would probably never get to tell anyone. Ma. I’ve done something stupid .

‘Going?’ Again that look, as if he didn’t recognize her. Would that make it easier for him? Then he smiled, wide as a shark. ‘Friday night? I was coming here to meet Galeotti, give him his commission, tell him the deal. Of course. I moved the money — no more than borrowing it, really, in Claudio’s name, then transfer it — via another account, of course, I’m not stupid — over to the Carnevale and the sale can go through. Easy enough to write the letter saying the property was no longer encumbered, copy it to them, just to speed it all up. Galeotti thought it was genius.’

I bet he did, thought Roxana.

‘Last piece of the jigsaw, sale goes through Monday.’ Then his expression darkened. ‘Fucking Josef,’ he said, and as he tilted his head back she saw him muse, coldly. ‘Fucking thieving little gypsy scum. Hiding in his little hole, listening to every word.’

‘The money,’ whispered Roxana, knowing she should just keep quiet. Val turned his head and regarded her. ‘You stole that money. To pay off what had been borrowed against the business. You stole it in Claudio’s name.’

Who had authorized that first loan, taken out a year ago? When old Mrs Martelli had had her heart attack?

‘The old cow,’ he said. ‘Nagging at me, where had the money gone, she’d let me take out the loan against the business and I’d been supposed to invest it for her, I’d told her I knew my stuff. Then when she had her heart attack I thought, well, it’ll be mine soon enough anyway, who’s going to know? I started spending. I don’t know how you can live on what they pay at the bank.’ His lip curled a little. ‘You don’t really have a life, though, do you?’

‘When they made the offer on the cinema you had to come up with the money, pay off the loan.’ Roxana’s voice came out in a whisper. ‘Thought about selling the bike back then but it wouldn’t have been enough. Three thousand, the thieving bastards paid me for it.’ He snorted contemptuously. ‘It would have been paid back, when the sale went through, Tyrrhenian Properties’ payment to me would’ve easily covered it. I thought my luck was in when he left early Friday, wrote the letter, made the preliminary transfer, all while you were staring out the window in the kitchen. We shut up shop and I went off to close the deal.’

Only you left Claudio’s computer switched on, thought Roxana.

He sighed, self-pityingly. ‘I’d have got all the money back where it should have been before Claudio was back from holiday — if only that little gyspy snitch had kept his mouth shut. Claudio thinks I’m so dumb: he’s the dumb one. Was. No grasp of technology, the older generation.’ Roxana just stared.