David Hewson - The Fallen Angel

‘Here’s something,’ Peroni chipped in. ‘That American woman looked much more worried than the real widow. Cecilia Gabriel seems as hard as nails. I couldn’t wait to be out of there, and she didn’t hit me.’

Falcone muttered something inaudible then added, ‘All the more reason why I should be doing more than I am.’ He glared at Peroni. ‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘Doing what? We’re trying to prise open the lid on one of the most private things anyone owns. Their family. Cecilia Gabriel and her daughter don’t seem keen to help. The son’s nowhere to be found. This isn’t going to be quick or easy. Besides, do we have a choice? We could be in trouble already.’

‘Facts,’ Falcone protested. ‘On the evidence we’ve been given Malise Gabriel was alone in the house with his daughter. Logically, circumstantially, he had sex with her, not that we have any firm proof. Even if she agreed to a physical examination. .’

Costa shook his head and said, ‘She won’t do that. Not now. Why would she? She isn’t making a complaint.’

‘I’m going to have to ask for one, aren’t I? If she’s innocent, where’s the problem?’

Peroni caught Costa’s eye and said, ‘The problem is she’d have to go into a room with a complete stranger and let herself be prodded and poked as if she were a rape victim. Allowing you to do that is as good as an admission that something untoward happened, isn’t it? Nic’s right. She won’t agree.’

‘It could clear her!’ Falcone pointed out. ‘And her father.’

Costa thought of the words she’d used outside the Palazzetto Santacroce.

‘Mina identifies with Beatrice Cenci. If you ask her to go through an examination she’ll equate that with some kind of torture, of duress. Understandably, perhaps. Beatrice never confessed to a thing, even when she was hung up from the ceiling until her shoulders were dislocated. If Mina sees herself as a modern-day Beatrice she’ll ignore every question you throw at her as a matter of principle.’

Falcone scowled.

‘Why? Her father appears to have been murdered. He had sex before he died. There were scratch marks on his back. If we could examine her nails. .’ Costa and Peroni were shaking their heads in unison. ‘There was blood on the radiator by the wall. A sign of violence, possibly. Perhaps the brother chanced on them and lost his temper. Perhaps it was planned in advance.’

He put his glass on the table and murmured a low curse. Then he glanced at Costa, as if seeking support.

‘If I pull in Mina Gabriel tomorrow, with or without her mother, and put her through an aggressive interrogation — no physical examination, just questioning — do you think she might break?’

‘No,’ Costa said immediately. ‘She’s very smart and very cool. When she wants to talk, she’ll talk. Not before. Nothing’s going to change that. Not unless you can break her story somehow. You’re also forgetting that she spent most of that Friday night in the room she used for music. Practising, wearing a set of headphones. She only saw her father briefly, later in the evening. That was how she knew he was there.’

Falcone looked interested and said, ‘So?’

‘So if you’re practising music, very intricate and difficult music, with headphones on. . surely anything could have happened outside the door of her room. Someone else could have walked in and gone to bed with Malise Gabriel, then left without Mina noticing.’

‘Please,’ Falcone told him. ‘You know nothing of affairs. No one would do such a thing if there was a family member in the next room. Headphones or no headphones. It’s ridiculous.’

‘They would if the girl knew the affair was going on,’ Peroni said slyly. ‘If it was their secret. Daddy’s friend’s coming round. Best not disturb us.’

‘Well, there’s one more reason to bring her in.’ Falcone glanced at his watch then drained his glass. ‘Unless the girl tells us something I see only two ways forward. Forensic can come up with something concrete from outside the house. Or we can find the brother. I’m sick of waiting on narcotics. We can at least try to locate Robert Gabriel ourselves. Agreed?’

Costa shrugged.

‘It’s not for me to agree or disagree. It’s your case.’

Falcone’s acute grey eyes flashed with displeasure.

‘Oh no. You’re involved already. You spent the whole day with Mina Gabriel. She trusts you. We can use that. It may be one of the few advantages we have.’

‘I’m on holiday, Leo.’

‘I know. But you can do what you’re doing now. Hanging around. Talking to her. If she trusts you that could help us.’

Peroni grabbed some more cold meat with a wordless grumble.

‘Is that wise?’ Costa asked. ‘Doesn’t the question of entrapment bother you?’

‘Not in the slightest. She needs a friend. It seems to me she has one.’

He half-expected this. Costa knew the direction the man’s mind took when opportunities were scarce.

Falcone tapped Peroni on the knee.

‘Also I like your idea. Let’s wait until we’ve something solid. Then, when we’re ready, we’ll bring in the girl and her mother. Who knows? Maybe the son too.’

Peroni blinked and said, ‘You liked my idea? You’re following my advice?’

‘I always listen. Give me credit for that. Besides.’ Falcone’s face fell serious for a moment. ‘If we go nowhere near them for a day or two perhaps they’ll think they’ve got away with it.’

‘Whatever it is,’ Costa added. ‘Anything else?’

Falcone smiled and held up his wine glass. He looked satisfied finally, if not exactly happy.

‘One more round of drinks, Nic. Then I’m going home. Best make it quick. The price goes up at seven.’

Costa bought them another glass and stuck to water. Then, when they left, he picked up the Vespa from outside the Palazzetto Santacroce and rode round to the narrow lane of Governo Vecchio. It ran from the old talking statue of Pasquino near the Piazza Navona towards the river, a cramped, cobbled route that was once one of the pilgrim streets to the Vatican. Falcone had owned an apartment here, close to the famous wine bar Cul de Sac, before moving to a quieter place in Monti. Near Navona it was busy with tourists and Romans alike. As it progressed towards the Ponte Sant’Angelo, where Beatrice Cenci had been executed, it became quieter and more local, one more shady, constricted alley among many. Governo Vecchio was a convenient place to live, and pricey too. Agata’s new private college seemed very generous.

Her address turned out to be a single bright red door on the corner that led to one of his favourite churches in Rome, the baroque little temple of Santa Maria della Pace, a classical jewel in the midst of the area’s sprawl of palaces and apartment buildings. There was a florist’s opposite. Costa caught the woman as she was locking up and managed to buy her last few flowers: a rather limp-looking selection of tulips. He stood on Agata’s doorstep, bouquet in one hand, crash helmet in the other, ruffling his hair to try to look a little more presentable after the long, eventful day.

It took a good minute for her to answer and when she did he’d no idea what to say. So he just stood there, extending the flowers, smiling awkwardly. Agata was wearing a short and sleeveless black cocktail dress. Her hair was newly fashioned in a way that, to his eyes, looked a little too serious and old. She was struggling to fasten a rather heavy pearl necklace round her dusky throat and there was a look in her intelligent eyes that he couldn’t quite interpret except, perhaps, as embarrassment. The apartment, from what he could see through the half-open door, looked beautiful: modern furniture, large art prints on the wall, an airy individual residence hidden behind the thick walls of a building that probably went back to the seventeenth century or earlier. She didn’t make a move to let him in.