David Hewson - The Fallen Angel

Again he regretted his clumsy words, which were meant to inform, not accuse. Yet Falcone’s face bore a brief mark of hurt. This was getting too personal, too close, for both of them. The inspector was his friend as much as a colleague and he hadn’t recovered completely from the unexpected and vicious slap he’d got from the girl’s mother. It wasn’t the violence that shocked him. Peroni knew that. It was the hatred, the force behind it. Falcone was a decent man, trying to do a difficult, sometimes impossible, job, one that society demanded without ever asking the cost. He didn’t want thanks. But he didn’t expect to be detested either.

‘I’m sorry,’ Peroni said. ‘That was uncalled for. I should never have said it. I simply feel we may be getting ahead of ourselves.’

Or was he really trying to convince himself of all this? He knew what Falcone meant. He just wasn’t sure they were looking in the right place. Meeting Bernard Santacroce had bothered him, for one thing. The man was a stuck-up bastard who hadn’t made the slightest effort to hide how he felt about Malise Gabriel.

‘Why wouldn’t that toffee-nosed bastard upstairs write out the name of his stupid academic paper for me?’ Peroni wondered.

‘I imagine he thought it was beneath him. Besides, we’ve got the paper already, haven’t we? If you think that’s evidence and this — ’ Falcone waved the photograph of Mina Gabriel in Peroni’s face — ‘isn’t, then God help us all.’

There were times when Peroni wanted to give Leo Falcone a piece of his mind. The truth, the whole truth, nothing but. It wasn’t rank that stopped him. It was simple human concern. He knew how much the man would be hurt if his fragile and lonely facade was punctured.

‘May I offer a word of advice?’ he said instead.

Falcone replaced the photograph then folded his arms, saying nothing.

‘We’re walking on eggshells here,’ Peroni told him. ‘If I remember correctly the only way they broke down the Cenci family was by torturing the brother. We don’t have that option, even if we knew where he was. If there’s a case here it may well depend on someone — the wife, the daughter, maybe even the son — deciding to tell us the truth. We won’t get that out of them easily. Or by shouting.’

‘I never shout!’ Falcone objected, then added, more quietly, perhaps with a little regret, ‘Well, rarely these days.’

Peroni opened the door to the Casina delle Civette. Evening was on its way, a lazy golden one, still full of heat.

He took Falcone by the arm, looked into the man’s lined face, with its silver goatee, which was now, with age, beginning to look a little vain and said, ‘Come on. Let me buy an old friend a beer. It’s August, Leo. We don’t need to rush things. No one’s going anywhere. A little time. A little patience. Who knows how this will look in the morning?’

The inspector’s phone trilled. Peroni picked up Bernard Santa-croce’s academic paper, placed it under his arm, and waited.

Falcone listened for a moment then hit the speaker button and turned the handset so he could hear. It was Teresa. She had news and it changed everything.

The Vespa wound its way back along the Via Giulia then, under Mina’s shouted guidance from the back, Costa turned left into a narrow side street he didn’t know and brought the scooter to a halt outside an imposing Renaissance palace. To his amazement — and some embarrassment — Falcone and Peroni were walking out of the entrance arch, talking rapidly to one another with a serious intent that usually meant something had happened.

Before he could drag the little machine into the shadows Falcone’s sharp eyes caught them and he was over, Peroni following in his wake.

The inspector glared intently at Costa then, as if ignoring him, spoke directly to the girl.

‘Mina Gabriel?’ he asked, showing his ID.

She got off, removed her helmet, shook her long, blonde hair free and said, ‘Yes?’

‘We need you to come to the Questura. If you want to bring your mother, please call her now. The choice is yours. It isn’t necessary. There’s no legal requirement.’

‘What’s this about?’ Costa asked, to Falcone’s obvious displeasure.

Falcone turned to Peroni and said, ‘This has nothing to do-’

‘I want him here!’ Mina yelled at him. ‘You can’t order me around. Who do you think you are?’

‘Signora!’ It wasn’t the right word and it was obvious from Falcone’s face he knew it. She looked like a girl again, with an angry pout contorting her pale and pleasant northern features. ‘I need you to come to the Questura for interview.’ He glowered at Costa. ‘We have our reasons.’

‘Reasons?’ she said. ‘What reasons?’

‘At the Questura-’

‘Are you arresting me?’

‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Not at all.’

‘So you can’t make me?’

‘I’m asking-’

‘I’ll talk to Mummy,’ she said, and passed the helmet back to Costa. ‘If she says I should come, I’ll come.’

‘Leo,’ Costa interrupted. ‘Can we please talk about this calmly? I’m sure Mina will do everything she can to help.’

‘I want to talk to my mother,’ she insisted.

‘Fine,’ Falcone snapped. ‘Then let me ask one simple question. I wouldn’t normally broach this in a public street but since it appears I have no choice-’

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘Your father had sexual intercourse the night he died. That is beyond doubt.’ He didn’t look happy having to say this at all. Falcone seemed mournful, and deeply upset. ‘You said there was just the two of you in the apartment all evening. So I need to know. Was it with you?’

She looked as if she’d suffered some kind of invisible, physical blow. Her slim shoulders hunched forward, her mouth fell open. Tears, of grief and indignation, began to fill her bright young eyes.

Mina Gabriel shot a glance of unadulterated hatred in Costa’s direction.

‘I thought you said you couldn’t torture people any more,’ she told him.

‘You don’t have to answer,’ he said, in spite of Falcone’s growing fury. ‘We can arrange an appointment at the Questura. Tomorrow, say. With your mother. A lawyer. I can come if you want-’

‘You’re a police officer!’ Falcone bellowed.

‘Right now I’m on holiday,’ Costa replied.

Mina took two steps forward until she stood directly in front of the inspector.

‘I’ll tell you what I told Nic,’ she said briskly. ‘I loved my father. And he loved me. Read that how you will, you grubby little man.’

She shook her head, dashed forward and kissed Costa briefly on the cheek, the way any young Roman girl might have done with a friend at the end of the day. Then she whispered in his ear, ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for listening to me.’

The girl half-walked, half-ran into the building. Costa wondered whether he’d done the right thing, and not just because Falcone seemed beside himself with anger.

‘I could get a warrant right now,’ the inspector stormed. ‘We could go through every last thing they own. I can take her into custody this instant. Her and the mother.’

Costa waited for a little of the heat to abate.

‘If you do that,’ he said quietly, ‘she’ll never tell you a thing. I can’t believe what I just saw here. How could you do that? How?’

‘What choice did I have?’ Falcone roared.

‘Some,’ Costa replied quietly. ‘Why the rush, Leo?’

‘I thought that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You’re the one who brought us into this case.’

‘If it is a case,’ Costa said. ‘And if it is you’re going to have to take this very carefully indeed. You’re dealing with a family here. Not some street crook who’s thrown a brick through a jeweller’s window.’